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Botoete an U Stories fcp 3Srct |>arte. 


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POETICAL WORKS 


OF 

BRET HARTE 

n 


C?ou0cl)olD Ctution 


WITH ILLUSTRATIONS 



BOSTON AND NEW YORK 
HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN AND COMPANY 

tiilu’rsi&e prcsrf, CambviDfle 

LI . 



Copyright, 1870, 

By FIELDS, OSGOOD & CO. 

Copyright, 1871, 1874, 

By JAMES R. OSGOOD & CO. 

Copyright, 1882, 1896, 

By HOUGHTON, MIFFLIN & CO. 

Copyright, 1898, 

By BRET HARTE. 

All rights reserved. 


ft®C0fu SBEC£ 





The Riverside Press , Cambridge , Mass., U. S. A. 
Electrotyped and Printed by H. O. Houghton & Co. 


CONTENTS 


I. NATIONAL. 

PAOB 

John Burns of Gettysburg 1 

“How are you, Sanitary?” 5 

Battle Bunny 7 

The Reveille 10 

Our Privilege .12 

Relieving Guard 13 

The Goddess 14 

On a Pen of Thomas Starr King 16 

A Second Review of the Grand Army 17 

The Copperhead 20 

Sanitary Message 21 

The Old Major Explains 23 

California’s Greeting to Seward ii5- 

The Aged Stranger 27 

The Idyl of Battle Hollow 29 

Caldwell of Springfield 31 

Poem, Delivered on the Fourteenth Anniversary of Cal- 
ifornia’s Admission into the Union 33^— 

Miss Blanche says * . . . 36 

An Arctic Vision 40 

St. Thomas 43 

Off Scarborough 45 

Cadet Grey 49 

II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS. 

The Miracle of Padre Junipero 67 

The Wonderful Spring of s San Joaquin .... 70 

The Angelus . . 74 

Concepcion de Arguello >«.>,, 76 

“For the King”. 83 

Ramon 90 

Don Diego of the South 93 

At the Hacienda . 97 


IV 


CONTENTS 


Friar Pedro’s Ride 98 

In the Mission Garden 104 

The Lost Galleon 106 

III. IN DIALECT. 

“Jim” 112 

Chiquita 115 

Dow’s Flat 118 

In the Tunnel 122 

“Cicely” 324 

Penelope 127 

Plain Language from Truthful James 129 

The Society upon the Stanislaus 132 

Luke 134 

“The Babes in the Woods” 139 

The Latest Chinese Outrage 142 

Truthful James to the Editor 146 

An Idyl of the Road 149 

Thompson of Angels 152 

The Hawk’s Nest 155 

Her Letter 157 

His Answer to “Her Letter” 160 

“The Return of Belisarius” 163 

Further Language from Truthful James .... 165 

After the Accident 168 

The Ghost that Jim saw 170 

“ Seventy-Nine ” 172 

The Stage-Driver’s Story 175 

A Question of Privilege 178 

The Thought-Reader of Angels 180 

The Spelling Bee at Angels 183 

Artemis in Sierra 188 

Jack of the Tules 192 

IV. MISCELLANEOUS. 

A Greyport Legend . . . « 195 

< 0 

A Newport Romance . . . ‘ ^ \ 197 

San Francisco . . . . w< l “. 200 

The Mountain Heart’ s-Ease 202 

Grizzly 204 

Madrono 205 

Coyote 206 


CONTENTS V 

To a Sea-Bird 207 

What the Chimney Sang 208 

Dickens in Camp 209 

Twenty Years 211 

Fate 213 

Grandmother Tenterden 214 

Guild’s Signal 217 

Aspiring Miss Delaine 219 

A Legend of Cologne 225 

The Tale of a Pony 234 

On a Cone of the Big Trees 238 

Lone Mountain ' 240 

Alnaschar 241 

The Two Ships 243 

Address (Opening of the California Theatre, San Fran- 
cisco, January 19, 1870) 244 

Dolly Yarden 246 

Telemachus versus Mentor 248 

What the Wolf really said to Little Red Riding-Hood 252 

Half an Hour before Supper 253 

What the Bullet sang 256 

The Old Camp-Fire 257 

The Station-Master of Lone Prairie 261 

The Mission Bells of Monterey 264 

“Crotalus” 265 

V. PARODIES. 

Before the Curtain 267 

To the Pliocene Skull 268 

The Ballad of Mr. Cooke 270 

The Ballad of the Emeu 274 

Mrs. Judge Jenkins 276 

A Geological Madrigal 279 

Avitor 281 

The Willows 283 

North Beach . v * * 286 

The Lost Tails of Miletus ; . . 287 

The Ritualist 288 

A Moral Vindicator 289 

California Madrigal 291 

What the Engines said 292 

The Legends of the Rhine 294 

Songs without Sense 296 


VI 


CONTENTS 


VI. LITTLE POSTERITY. 


Master Johnny’s Next-Door Neighbor 298 

Miss Edith’s Modest Request 301 

Miss Edith makes it Pleasant for Brother Jack . . 304 

Miss Edith makes another Friend 306 

What Miss Edith saw from her Window . . . 308 

On the Landing 311 

Notes 315 

Index of First Lines 317 

Index of Titles ... 320 


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS 


PAGE 


Portrait Frontispiece 

“The pines sing by the sea” 

“My unspent bounty comes at last to mingle with the 

sea” 

“Polar dock where nature slips from the ways her icy 

ships” 

“From that broadside, doubly curst” 

“It was gold!” 

“He went for that Heathen Chinee” 

“Across the distant unfathomable reach” . 

“The pines, and the valley below” 

“This sad old house by the sea” 

“But the ship sailed safely over the sea” 

“Frowning heights of mossy stone” 


12 

22 

40 
40 
120 
130 
155 / 
164 / 
197 
21 3 v 
294 





POEMS 


I. NATIONAL 

JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 
Of Burns of Gettysburg ? — No ? Ah, well : 
Brief is the glory that hero earns, 

Briefer the story of poor John Burns. 

He was the fellow who won renown, — 

The only man who did n’t back down 
When the rebels rode through his native town 
But held his own in the fight next day, 

When all his townsfolk ran away. 

That was in July sixty-three, 

The very day that General Lee, 

Flower of Southern chivalry, 

Baffied and beaten, backward reeled 
From a stubborn Meade and a barren field. 

I might tell how but the day before 
John Burns stood at his cottage door, 

Looking down the village street, 

Where, in the shade of his peaceful vine, 

He heard the low of his gathered kine, 

And felt their breath with incense sweet ; 

Or I might say, when the sunset burned 
The old farm gable, he thought it turned 


2 


NATIONAL 


The milk that fell like a babbling flood 
Into the milk-pail red as blood ! 

Or how he fancied the hum of bees 
Were bullets buzzing among the trees. 

But all such fanciful thoughts as these 
Were strange to a practical man like Burns, 
Who minded only his own concerns, 

Troubled no more by fancies fine 

Than one of his calm-eyed, long-tailed kine, — 

Quite old-fashioned and matter-of-fact, 

Slow to argue, but quick to act. 

That was the reason, as some folk say, 

He fought so well on that terrible day. 

And it was terrible. On the right 
Baged for hours the heady fight, 

Thundered the battery’s double bass, — 
Difficult music for men to face ; 

While on the left — where now the graves 
Undulate like the living waves 
That all that day unceasing swept 
Up to the pits the rebels kept — 

Bound shot ploughed the upland glades, 

Sown with bullets, reaped with blades ; 
Shattered fences here and there 
Tossed their splinters in the air ; 

The very trees were stripped and bare ; 

The barns that once held yellow grain 
Were heaped with harvests of the slain ; 

The cattle bellowed on the plain, 

The turkeys screamed with might and main, 
And brooding barn-fowl left their rest 
With strange shells bursting in each nest. 

Just where the tide of battle turns, 

Erect and lonely stood old John Burns. 


JOHN BURNS OF GETTYSBURG 


3 


How do you think the man was dressed ? 

He wore a*i ancient long huff vest, 

Yellow as saffron, — but his best ; 

And buttoned over his manly breast 

Was a bright blue coat, with a rolling collar, 

And large gilt buttons, — size of a dollar, — 

With tails that the country-folk called “swaller.” 
He wore a broad-brimmed, bell-crowned hat, 

White as the locks on which it sat. 

Never had such a sight been seen 
For forty years on the village green, 

Since old John Burns was a country beau, 

And went to the “ quiltings 99 long ago. 

Close at his elbows all that day, 

Veterans of the Peninsula, 

Sunburnt and bearded, charged away ; 

And striplings, downy of lip and chin, — 

Clerks that the Home Guard mustered in, — 
Glanced, as they passed, at the hat he wore, 

Then at the rifle his right hand bore, 

And hailed him, from out their youthful lore, 

With scraps of a slangy repertoire : 

" How are you, White Hat ? ” “ Put her through ! ” 
“ Your head ’s level ! 99 and “ Bully for you ! ” 
Called him “ Daddy,” — begged he ’d disclose 
The name of the tailor who made his clothes, 

And what was the value he set on those ; 

While Burns, unmindful of jeer and scoff, 

Stood there picking the rebels off, — 

With his long brown rifle and bell-crown hat, 

And the swallow-tails they were laughing at. 

’T was but a moment, for that respect 
Which clothes all courage their voices checked ; 


a 


4 


NATIONAL 


And something the wildest could understand 
Spake in the old man’s strong right hand, 

And his corded throat, and the lurking frown 
Of his eyebrows under his old hell-crown ; 

Until, as they gazed, there crept an awe 
Through the ranks in whispers, and some men saw, 
In the antique vestments and long white hair, 

The Past of the Nation in battle there ; 

And some of the soldiers since declare 
That the gleam of his old white hat afar, 

Like the crested plume of the brave Navarre, 

That day was their oriflamme of war. 

So raged the battle. You know the rest : 

How the rebels, beaten and backward pressed, 
Broke at the final charge and ran. 

At which John Burns — a practical man — 
Shouldered his rifle, unbent his brows, 

And then went hack to his bees and cows. 

That is the story of old John Burns j 
This is the moral the reader learns : 

In fighting the battle, the question ’s whether 
You ’ll show a hat that ’s white, or a feather ! 


“HOW ARE YOU, SANITARY ? ” 

Down the picket-guarded lane 

Rolled the comfort-laden wain, 
Cheered by shouts that shook the plain, 
Soldier-like and merry : 

Phrases such as camps may teach, 
Sabre-cuts of Saxon speech, 

Such as “ Bully ! ” “ Them ’s the peach ! ” 
“ Wade in, Sanitary ! ” 

Right and left the caissons drew 
As the car went lumbering through, 

Quick succeeding in review 
Squadrons military ; 

Sunburnt men with beards like frieze, 
Smooth-faced boys, and cries like these, — 
“ U. S. San. Com.” “ That \s the cheese ! ” 

“ Pass in, Sanitary ! ” 

In such cheer it struggled on 
Till the battle front was won : 

Then the car, its journey done, 

Lo ! was stationary ; 

And where bullets whistling fly 
Came the sadder, fainter cry, 

“ Help us, brothers, ere we die, — 

Save us, Sanitary ! ” 

Such the work. The phantom flies, 
Wrapped in battle clouds that rise ; 


NATIONAL 


But the brave — whose dying eyes, 
Veiled and visionary, 

See the jasper gates swung wide, 
See the parted throng outside — 
Hears the voice to those who ride : 
u Pass in, Sanitary ! ” 


BATTLE BUNNY 


(mALVEKN HILL, 1864) 

“ After the men were ordered to lie down, a white rabbit, which had 
been hopping hither and thither over the field swept by grape and mus- 
ketry, took refuge among the skirmishers, in the breast of a corporal.” — 
Report of the Battle of Malvern Hill. 

Bunny, lying in the grass, 

Saw the shining column pass ; 

Saw the starry banner fly, 

Saw the chargers fret and fume, 

Saw the flapping hat and plume, — 

Saw them with his moist and shy 
Most unspeculative eye, 

Thinking only, in the dew, 

That it was a fine review. 

Till a flash, not all of steel, 

Where the rolling caissons wheel, 

Brought a rumble and a roar 
Rolling down that velvet floor, 

And like blows of autumn flail 
Sharply threshed the iron hail. 

Bunny, thrilled by unknown fears, 

Raised his soft and pointed ears, 

Mumbled his prehensile lip, 

Quivered his pulsating hip, 

As the sharp vindictive yell 
Rose above the screaming shell ; 


B 


NATIONAL 


Thought the world and all its men, — 
All the charging squadrons meant, — 

All were rabbit-hunters then, 

All to capture him intent. 

Bunny was not much to blame : 

Wiser folk have thought the same, — 
Wiser folk who think they spy 
Every ill begins with “ I.” 

Wildly panting here and there, 

Bunny sought the freer air, 

Till he hopped below the hill, 

And saw, lying close and still, 

Men with muskets in their hands. 

(Never Bunny understands 
That hypocrisy of sleep, 

In the vigils grim they keep, 

As recumbent on that spot 
They elude the level shot.) 

One — a grave and quiet man, 

Thinking of his wife and child 
Far beyond the Kapidan, 

Where the Androscoggin smiled — 

Felt the little rabbit creep, 

Nestling by his arm and side, 

Wakened from strategic sleep, 

To that soft appeal replied, 

Drew him to his blackened breast, 

And — But you have guessed the rest. 

Softly o’er that chosen pair 
Omnipresent Love and Care 
Drew a mightier Hand and Arm, 
Shielding them from every harm ; 


BATTLE BUNNY 


Eight and left the bullets waved, 
Saved the saviour for the saved. 


Who believes that equal grace 
God extends in every place, 
Little difference he scans 
’Twixt a rabbit’s God and man’s. 


THE BEVEILLE 


Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands, 

And of armed men the hum ; 

Lo ! a nation’s hosts have gathered 
Bound the quick alarming drum, — 

Saying, “ Come, 

Freemen, come ! 

Ere your heritage he wasted,” said the quick alarming drum. 

“ Let me of my heart take counsel : 

War is nc$ of life the sum ; 

Who shall stay and reap the harvest 
When the autumn days shall come ? ” 

But the drum 
'••'Echoed, “ Come ! 

Death shall reap the braver harvest,” said the solemn- 
sounding drum. 

“ But when won the coming battle, 

What of profit springs therefrom ? 

What if conquest, subjugatiop, 

Even greater ills become ? ” 

But the drum 
Answered, “ Come ! 

You must do the sum to prove it,” said the Yankee answer- 
ing drum. 

“ What if, ’mid the cannons’ thunder, 

Whistling shot and bursting bomb, 


THE REVEILLE 


11 


When my brothers fall around me, 

Should my heart grow cold and numb ? ” 

But the drum 
Answered, “ Come ! 

Better there in death united, than in life a recreant. — 
Come ! ” 

Thus they answered, — hoping, fearing, 

Some in faith, and doubting some, 

Till a trumpet-voice proclaiming, 

Said, t( My chosen people, come ! ” 

Then the drum, 

Lo ! was dumb, 

For the great heart of the nation, throbbing, answered, 
“ Lord, we come ! ” 


OUR PRIVILEGE 


Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls, 
And battle dews lie wet, 

To meet the charge that treason hurls 
By sword and bayonet. 

Not ours to guide the fatal scythe 
The fleshless Reaper wields ; 

The harvest moon looks calmly down 
Upon our peaceful fields. 

The long grass dimples on the hill, 

The pines sing by the sea, 

And Plenty, from her golden horn, 

Is pouring far and free. 

0 brothers by the farther sea ! 

Think still our faith is warm ; 

The same bright flag above us waves 
That swathed our baby form. 

The same red blood that dyes your fields 
Here throbs in patriot pride, — 

The blood that flowed when Lander fell, 
And Baker’s crimson tide. 

And thus apart our hearts keep time 
With every pulse ye feel, 

And Mercy’s ringing gold shall chime 
With Valor’s clashing steel. 





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BELIEVING GTJABD 


THOMAS STARR KING. OBIIT MARCH 4, 1864 

Came the relief. “ What, sentry, ho ! 

How passed the night through thy long waking ? 99 
“ Cold, cheerless, dark, — as may befit 
The hour before the dawn is breaking.” 

“ No sight ? no sound ? ” “ No ; nothing save 

The plover from the marshes calling, 

And in yon western sky, about 
An hour ago, a star was falling.” 

“ A star ? There ’s nothing strange in that.” 

“ No, nothing ; hut, above the thicket, 

Somehow it seemed to me that God 
Somewhere had just relieved a picket.” 


THE GODDESS 


CONTRIBUTED TO THE FAIR FOR THE LADIES* PATRIOTIC 
FUND OF THE PACIFIC 

" Who comes ? ” The sentry’s warning cry 
Rings sharply on the evening air : 

Who comes ? The challenge : no reply, 

Yet something motions there. 

A woman, by those graceful folds ; 

A soldier, by that martial tread : 
u Advance three paces. Halt ! until 
Thy name and rank be said.” 

11 My name ? Her name, in ancient song, 

Who fearless from Olympus came : 

Look on me ! Mortals know me best 
In battle and in flame.” 

“ Enough ! I know that clarion voice ; 

I know that gleaming eye and helm, 

Those crimson lips, — and in their dew 
The best blood of the realm. 

u The young, the brave, the good and wise, 

Have fallen in thy curst embrace : 

The juices of the grapes of wrath 
Still stain thy guilty face. 


THE GODDESS 


15 


" My brother lies in yonder field, 

Face downward to the quiet grass : 

Go back ! he cannot see thee now ; 

But here thou shalt not pass.” 

A crack upon the evening air, 

A wakened echo from the hill : 

The watchdog on the distant shore 
Gives mouth, and all is still. 

The sentry with his brother lies 

Face downward on the quiet grass ; , 

And by him, in the pale moonshine, 

A shadow seems to pass. 

No lance or warlike shield it bears: 

A helmet in its pitying hands 

Brings water from the nearest brook, 

To meet his last demands. 

Can this be she of haughty mien, 

The goddess of the sword and shield ? 

Ah, yes ! The Grecian poet’s myth 
Sways still each battlefield. 

For not alone that rugged War 

Some grace or charm from Beauty gains; 

But, when the goddess’ work is done, 

The woman’s still remains. 


ON A PEN OF THOMAS STAKE, KING 


This is the reed the dead musician dropped, 

With tuneful magic in its sheath still hidden ; 

The prompt allegro of its music stopped, 

Its melodies unhidden. 

But who shall finish the unfinished strain, 

Or wake the instrument to awe and wonder, 

And hid the slender barrel breathe again, 

An organ-pipe of thunder ! 

His pen ! what humbler memories cling about 

Its golden curves ! what shapes and laughing graces 
Slipped from its point, when his full heart went out 
In smiles and courtly phrases ? 

The truth, half jesting, half in earnest flung ; 

The word of cheer, with recognition in it ; 

The note of alms, whose golden speech outrung 
The golden gift within it. 

But all in vain the enchanter’s wand we wave : 

No stroke of ours recalls his magic vision : 

The incantation that its power gave 
Sleeps with the dead magician. 


A SECOND REVIEW OE THE GRAND ARMY 


I read last* night of the grand review 
In Washington’s chief est avenue, — 

Two hundred thousand men in blue, 

I think they said was the number, — 

Till I seemed to hear their trampling feet, 

The bugle blast and the drum’s quick beat, 

The clatter of hoofs in the stony street, 

The cheers of people who came to greet, 

And the thousand details that to repeat 
Would only my verse encumber, — 

Till I fell in a reverie, sad and sweet, 

And then to a fitful slumber. 

When, lo ! in a vision I seemed to stand 
In the lonely Capitol. On each hand 
Ear stretched the portico, dim and grand 
Its columns ranged like a martial band 
Of sheeted spectres, whom some command 
Had called to a last reviewing. 

And the streets of the city were white and hare ; 
No footfall echoed across the square ; 

But out of the misty midnight air 
I heard in the distance a trumpet blare, 

And the wandering night-winds seemed to bear 
The sound of a far tattooing. 

Then I held my breath with fear and dread ; 

For into the square, with a brazen tread, 

There rode a figure whose stately head 


18 


NATIONAL 


O’erlooked the review that morning, 

That never bowed from its firm-set seat 
When the living column passed its feet, 

Yet now rode steadily up the street 
To the phantom bugle’s warning : 

Till it reached the Capitol square, and wheeled, 
And there in the moonlight stood revealed 
A well-known form that in State and field 
Had led our patriot sires : 

Whose face was turned to the sleeping camp, 

Afar through the river’s fog and damp, 

That showed no flicker, nor waning lamp, 

Nor wasted bivouac fires. 

And I saw a phantom army come, 

With never a sound of fife or drum, 

But keeping time to a throbbing hum 
Of wailing and lamentation : 

The martyred heroes of Malvern Hill, 

Of Gettysburg and Chancellorsville, 

The men whose wasted figures fill 
The patriot graves of the nation. 

And there came the nameless dead, — the men 
Who perished in fever swamp and fen, 

The slowly-starved of the prison pen ; 

And, marching beside the others, 

Came the dusky martyrs of Pillow’s fight, 

With limbs enfranchised and bearing bright ; 

I thought — perhaps ’t was the pale moonlight — 
They looked as white as their brothers ! 

And so all night marched the nation’s dead, 

With never a banner above them spread, 


A SECOND REVIEW OF THE GRAND ARMY 19 

Nor a badge, nor a motto brandished ; 

No mark — save the bare uncovered head 
Of the silent bronze Keviewer ; 

With never an arch save the vaulted sky ; 

With never a flower save those that lie 
On the distant graves — for love could buy 
No gift that was purer or truer. 

So all night long swept the strange array, 

So all night long till the morning gray 
I watched for one who had passed away ; 

With a reverent awe and wonder, — 

Till a blue cap waved in the length’ning line, 

And I knew that one who was kin of mine 
Had come ; and I spake — and lo ! that sign 
Awakened me from my slumber. 


THE COPPEBHEAD 


( 1864 ) 

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps, 
Where the waters are stagnant, the white vapor creeps, 
Where the musk of Magnolia hangs thick in the air, 

And the lilies’ phylacteries broaden in prayer. 

There is peace in the swamp, though the quiet is death, 
Though the mist is miasma, the upas-tree’s breath, 

Though no echo awakes to the cooing of doves, — 

There is peace : yes, the peace that the Copperhead loves. 

Go seek him : he coils in the ooze and the drip, 

Like a thong idly flung from the slave-driver’s whip ; 

But beware the false footstep, — the stumble that brings 
A deadlier lash than the overseer swings. 

Never arrow so true, never bullet so dread, 

As the straight steady stroke of that hammer-shaped head ; 
Whether slave or proud planter, who braves that dull crest, 
Woe to him who shall trouble the Copperhead’s rest ! 

Then why waste your labors, brave hearts and strong men, 
In tracking a trail to the Copperhead’s den ? 

Lay your axe to the cypress, hew open the shade 
To the free sky and sunshine Jehovah has made ; 

Let the breeze of the North sweep the vapors away, 

Till the stagnant lake ripples, the freed waters play ; 

And then to your heel can you righteously doom 
The Copperhead born of its shadow and gloom ! 


A SANITARY MESSAGE 


Last night, above the whistling wind, 

I heard the welcome rain, — 

A fusillade upon the roof, 

A tattoo on the pane : 

The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 
A warlike trumpet blew ; 

Yet, mingling with these sounds of strife, 
A softer voice stole through. 

a Give thanks, 0 brothers ! ” said the voice, 
“ That He who sent the rains 
Hath spared your fields the scarlet dew 
That drips from patriot veins : 

I ’ve seen the grass on Eastern graves 
In brighter verdure rise ; 

But, oh ! the rain that gave it life 
Sprang first from human eyes. 

“ I come to wash away no stain 
Upon your wasted lea ; 

I raise no banners, save the ones 
The forest waves to me : 

Upon the mountain side, where Spring 
Her farthest picket sets, 

My reveille awakes a host 
Of grassy bayonets. 

“ I visit every humble roof ; 

I mingle with the low : 


22 


NATIONAL 


Only upon the highest peaks 
My blessings fall in snow ; 

Until, in tricklings of the stream 
And drainings of the lea, 

My unspent bounty comes at last 
To mingle with the sea.” 

And thus all night, above the wind, 

I heard the welcome rain, — 

A fusillade upon the roof, 

A tattoo on the pane : 

The keyhole piped ; the chimney-top 
A warlike trumpet blew ; 

But, mingling with these sounds of strife, 
This hymn of peace stole through. 





ly unspent bounty conies at last 
To mingle with the sea. ” Page 22. 










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THE OLD MAJOR EXPLAINS' 

(RE-UNION, ARMY OF THE POTOMAC, 12TH MAY, 1871) 

Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don’t know as I 
can come: 

For the farm is not half planted, and there ’s work to do at 
home ; 

And my leg is getting troublesome, — it laid me up last 
fall, — 

And the doctors, they have cut and hacked, and never 
found the ball. 

And then, for an old man like me, it ’s not exactly right, 

This kind o’ playing soldier with no enemy in sight. 

“ The Union,” — that was well enough way up to ’66 ; 

But this “ Re-Union,” maybe now it ’s mixed with politics ? 

No ? Well, you understand it best ; but then, you see, 
my lad, 

I ’m deacon now, and some might think that the example ’s 
bad. 

And week from next is Conference. ... You said the 
twelfth of May ? 

Why, that ’s the day we broke their line at Spottsylvan-i-a ! 

Hot work ; eh, Colonel, was n’t it ? Ye mind that narrow 
front : 

They called it the “ Death-Angle ” ! Well, well, my lad, 
we won’t 

Fight that old battle over now : I only meant to say 

I really can’t engage to come upon the twelfth of May. 


24 NATIONAL 

How ’ s Thompson ? What ! will he he there ? Well, 
now I want to know ! 

The first man in the rebel works ! they called him “ Swear- 
ing Joe.” 

A wild young fellow, sir, I fear the rascal was ; but then — 

Well, short of heaven, there wasn’t a place he dursn’t lead 
his men. 

And Dick, you say, is coming too. And Billy ? ah ! it ’s 
true 

We buried him at Gettysburg : I mind the spot ; do you ? 

A little field below the hill, — it must be green this May ; 

Perhaps that ’s why the fields about bring him to me to-day. 

Well, well, excuse me, Colonel ! but there are some things 
that drop 

The tail-board out one’s feelings ; and the only way ’s to* 
stop. 

So they want to see the old man ; ah, the rascals ! do they, 
eh? 

Well, I ’ve business down in Boston about the twelfth of 
May. 


CALIFORNIA’ S GREETING TO SEWARD 


( 1869 ) 

We know him well : no need of praise 
Or bonfire from the windy hill 

To light to softer paths and ways 
The world-worn man we honor still. 

No need to quote the truths he spoke 

That burned through years of war and shame, 

While History carves with surer stroke 
Across our map his noonday fame. 

No need to bid him show the scars 
Of blows dealt by the Scsean gate, 

Who lived to pass its shattered bars, 

And see the foe capitulate : 

Who lived to turn his slower feet 
Toward the western setting sun, 

To see his harvest all complete, 

His dream fulfilled, his duty done, 

The one flag streaming from the pole, 

The one faith borne from sea to sea : 

For such a triumph, and such goal, 

Poor must our human greeting be. 

Ah ! rather that the conscious land 
In simpler ways salute the Man, — 


26 


NATIONAL 


The tall pines bowing where they stand, 

The bared head of El Capitan ! 

The tumult of the waterfalls, 

Pohono’s kerchief in the breeze, 

The waving from the rocky walls, 

The stir and rustle of the trees ; 

Till, lapped in' sunset skies of hope, 

In sunset lands by sunset seas, 

The Young World’s Premier treads the slope 
Of sunset years in calm and peace. 


4 


THE AGED STRANGER 

AN INCIDENT OF THE WAR 

11 1 was with Grant ” — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, u Say no more, 

But rest thee here at my cottage porch, 

For thy feet are weary and sore.” 

“ I was with Grant ” — the stranger said ; 

Said the farmer, “ Nay, no more, — 

I prithee sit at my frugal board, 

And eat of my humble store. 

" How fares my boy, — my soldier boy, 

Of the old Ninth Army Corps ? 

I warrant he bore him gallantly 

In the smoke and the battle’s roar ! ” 

<( I know him not,” said the aged man, 

“ And, as I remarked before, 

I was with Grant ” — “ Nay, nay, I know,” 

Said the farmer, “ say no more : 

u He fell in battle, — I see, alas ! 

Thou ’dst smooth these tidings o’er, — 

Nay, speak the truth, whatever it he, 

Though it rend my bosom’s core. 

“ How fell he ? With his face to the foe, 
Upholding the flag he bore ? 


28 


NATIONAL 


Oh, say not that my boy disgraced 
The uniform that he wore ! 99 

“ I cannot tell,” said the aged man, 

“ And should have remarked before, 
That I was with Grant, — in Illinois, — 
Some three years before the war.” 

Then the farmer spake him never a word, 
But heat with his fist full sore 
That aged man who had worked for Grant 
Some three years before the war. 


THE IDYL OF BATTLE HOLLOW 

(war of THE REBELLION, 1864) 

Ho, I won’t, — thar, now, so ! And it ain’t nothin’, — no ! 
And thar ’s nary to tell that you folks yer don’t know ; 
And it ’s “ Belle, tell us, do ! ” and it ’s “ Belle, is it true ? ” 
And “ Wot ’s this yer yarn of the Major and you ? ” 

Till I ’m sick of it all, — so I am, but I s’pose 

Thet is nothin’ to you. . . . Well, then, listen ! yer goes ! 

It was after the fight, and around us all night 
Thar was poppin’ and shootin’ a powerful sight ; 

And the niggers had fled, and Aunt Ohio was abed, 

And Pinky and Milly were hid in the shed : 

And I ran out at daybreak, and nothin’ was nigh 
But the growlin’ of cannon low down in the sky. 

And I saw not a thing, as I ran to the spring, 

But a splintered fence rail and a broken-down swing, 

And a bird said “ Kerchee ! ” as it sat on a tree, 

As if it was lonesome, and glad to see me ; 

And I filled up my pail and was risin’ to go, 

When up comes the Major a-canterin’ slow. 

When he saw me he drew in his reins, and then threw 
On the gate-post his bridle, and — what does he do 
But come down where I sat ; and he lifted his hat, 

And he says — well, thar ain’t any need to tell that ; 

’T was some foolishness, sure, hut it ’mounted to this, 

Thet he asked for a drink, and he wanted — a kiss. 


30 


NATIONAL 


Then I said (I was mad), “For the water, my lad, 

You ’re too big and must stoop ; for a kiss, it ’ s as bad, — 
You ain’t near big enough.” And I turned in a huff, 
When that Major he laid his white hand on my cuff, 

And he says, “ You ’re a trump ! Take my pistol, don’t 
fear ! 

But shoot the next man that insults you, my dear.” 

Then he stooped to the pool, very quiet and cool, 

Leavin’ me with that pistol stuck there like a fool, 

When thar flashed on my sight a quick glimmer of light 
From the top of the little stone fence on the right, 

And I knew ’t was a rifle, and back of it all 
Bose the face of that bushwhacker, Cherokee Hall ! 

Then I felt in my dread that the moment the head 
Of the Major was lifted, the Major was dead ; 

And I stood still and white, but Lord ! gals, in spite 
Of my care, that derned pistol went off in my fright ! 

Went off — true as gospil ! — and, strangest of all, 

It actooally injured that Cherokee Hall ! 

Thet ’s all — now, go ’long ! Yes, some folks thinks it ’s 
wrong, 

And thar ’s some wants to know to what side I belong ; 

But I says, “ Served him right ! ” and I go, all my might, 
In love or in war, for a fair stand-up fight ; 

And as for the Major — sho ! gals, don’t you know 
Thet — Lord ! thar ’s his step in the garden below. 


CALDWELL OF SPRINGFIELD 

(new JERSEY, 1780) 

Here ’s the spot. Look around you. Above on the 
height 

Lay the Hessians encamped. By that church on the right 
Stood the gaunt Jersey farmers. And here ran a wall, — 
You may dig anywhere and you ’ll turn up a hall. 

Nothing more. Grasses spring, waters run, flowers blow, 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 

Nothing more, did I say ? Stay one moment ; you ’ve 
heard 

Of Caldwell, the parson, who once preached the word 
Down at Springfield ? What, no ? Come — that ’s bad ; 
why, he had 

All the Jerseys aflame ! And they gave him the name 
Of the “ rebel high priest.” He stuck in their gorge, 

For he loved the Lord God — and he hated King George ! 

He had cause, you might say ! When the Hessians that 
day • 

Marched up with Knyphausen, they stopped on their way 
At the “ farms,” where his wife, with a child in her arms, 
Sat alone in the house. How it happened none knew 
But God — and that one of the hireling crew 
Who fired the shot ! Enough ! — there she lay, 

And Caldwell, the chaplain, her husband, away ! 


32 


NATIONAL 


Did he preach — did he pray ? Think of him as you stand 
By the old church to-day, — think of him and his hand 
Of militant ploughboys ! See the smoke and the heat 
Of that reckless advance, of that straggling retreat ! 

Keep the ghost of that wife, foully slain, in your view — 
And what could you, what should you, what would you do ? 

Why, just what he did ! They were left in the lurch 
Bor the want of more wadding. He ran to the church, 
Broke the door, stripped the pews, and dashed out in the 
road 

With his arms full of hymn-hooks, and threw down his load 
At their feet ! Then above all the shouting and shots 
Rang his voice : “ Put Watts into ’em ! Boys, give ’em 
Watts ! ” 

And they did. That is all. Grasses spring, flowers blow, 
Pretty much as they did ninety-three years ago. 

You may dig anywhere and you ’ll turn up a ball — 

But not always a hero like this — - and that ’s all. 


POEM 


DELIVERED ON THE FOURTEENTH ANNIVERSARY OF CALL 
FORNIA’S ADMISSION INTO THE UNION, SEPTEMBER 9, 
1864 

We meet in peace, though from our native East 
The sun that sparkles on our birthday feast 
Glanced as he rose on fields whose dews were red 
With darker tints than those Aurora spread. 

Though shorn his rays, his welcome disk concealed 
In the dim smoke that veiled each battlefield, 

Still striving upward, in meridian pride, 

He climbed the walls that East and West divide, — . 
Saw his bright face flashed back from golden sand, 
And sapphire seas that lave the Western land. 

Strange was the contrast that such scenes disclose 
From his high vantage o’er eternal snows ; 

There War’s alarm the brazen trumpet rings — 

Here his love-song the mailed cicala sings ; 

There bayonets glitter through the forest glades — 
Here yellow cornfields stack their peaceful blades ; 
There the deep trench where Valor finds a grave — 
Here the long ditch that curbs the peaceful wave ; 
There the bold sapper with his lighted train — 

Here the dark tunnel and its stores of gain ; 

Here the full harvest and the wain’s advance — 

There the Grim Reaper and the ambulance. 

With scenes so adverse, what mysterious bond 
Links our fair fortunes to the shores beyond ? 


34 


NATIONAL 


Why come we here — last of a scattered fold — 
To pour new metal in the broken mould ? 

To yield our tribute, stamped with Caesar’s face, 
To Caesar, stricken in the market-place ? 

Ah ! love of country is the secret tie 
That joins these contrasts ’neath one arching sky ; 
Though brighter paths our peaceful steps explore, 
We meet together at the Nation’s door. 

War winds her horn, and giant cliffs go down 
Like the high walls that girt the sacred town, 

And bares the pathway to her throbbing heart, 
From clustered village and from crowded mart. 

Part of God’s providence it was to found 
A Nation’s bulwark on this chosen ground ; 

Not Jesuit’s zeal nor pioneer’s unrest 
Planted these pickets in the distant West, 

But He who first the Nation’s fate forecast 
Placed here His fountains sealed for ages past, 
Bock-ribbed and guarded till the coming time 
Should fit the people for their work sublime ; 
When a new Moses with his rod of steel 
Smote the tall cliffs with one wide-ringing peal, 
And the old miracle in record told 
To the new Nation was revealed in gold. 

Judge not too idly that our toils are mean, 
Though no new levies marshal on our green ; 

Nor deem too rashly that our gains are small, 
Weighed with the prizes for which heroes fall. 
See, where thick vapor wreathes the battle-line ; 
There Mercy follows with her oil and wine ; 

Or where brown Labor with its peaceful charm 
Stiffens the sinews of the Nation’s arm. 


ANNIVERSARY POEM 


What nerves its hands to strike a deadlier blow 
And hurl its legions on the rebel foe ? 

Lo ! for each town new rising o’er our State 
See the foe’s hamlet waste and desolate, 

While each new factory lifts its chimney tall, 

Like a fresh mortar trained on Richmond’s wall. 

For this, O brothers, swings the fruitful vine, 
Spread our broad pastures with their countless kine 
For this o’erhead the arching vault springs clear, 
Sunlit and cloudless for one half the year ; 

For this no snowflake, e’er so lightly pressed, 

Chills the warm impulse of our mother’s breast. 
Quick to reply, from meadows brown and sere, 

She thrills responsive to Spring’s earliest tear ; 
Breaks into blossom, flings her loveliest rose 
Ere the white crocus mounts Atlantic snows ; 

And the example of her liberal creed 
Teaches the lesson that to-day we need. 

Thus ours the lot with peaceful, generous hand 
To spread our bounty o’er the suffering land ; 

As the deep cleft in Mariposa’s wall 
Hurls a vast river splintering in its fall, — 

Though the rapt soul who stands in awe below 
Sees but the arching of the promised bow, — 

Lo ! the far streamlet drinks its dews unseen, 

And the whole valley wakes a brighter green. 


MISS BLANCHE SAYS 


And you are the poet, and so you want 

Something — what is it ? — a theme, a fancy ? 
Something or other the Muse won’t grant 
To your old poetical necromancy ; 

Why, one half you poets — you can’t deny — 

Don’t know the Muse when you chance to meet her, 
But sit in your attics and mope and sigh 
Eor a faineant goddess to drop from the sky, 

When flesh and blood may be standing by 

Quite at your service, should you hut greet her. 

What if I told you my own romance ? 

Women are poets, if you so take them, 

One third poet, — the rest what chance 

Of man and marriage may choose to make them. 
Give me ten minutes before you go, — 

Here at the window we ’ll sit together, 

Watching the currents that ebb and flow ; 

Watching the world as it drifts below 
Up the hot Avenue’s dusty glow : 

Is n’t it pleasant, this bright June weather ? 

Well, it was after the war broke out, 

And I was a schoolgirl fresh from Paris ; 

Papa had contracts, and roamed about, 

And I — did nothing — for I was an heiress. 

Picked some lint, no*v I think ; perhaps 
Knitted some stockings — a dozen nearly ; 


MISS BLANCHE SAYS 


37 


Havelocks made for the soldiers’ caps ; 

Stood at fair-tables and peddled traps 
Quite at a profit. The “ shoulder-straps ” 

Thought I was pretty. Ah, thank you ! really ? 

Still it was stupid. Eata-tat-tat ! 

Those were the sounds of that battle summer, 

Till the earth seemed a parchment round and flat, 
And every footfall the tap of a drummer ; 

And day by day down the Avenue went 
Cavalry, infantry, all together, 

Till my pitying angel one day sent 
My fate in the shape of a regiment, 

That halted, just as the day was spent, 

Here at our door in the bright June weather. 

None of your dandy warriors they, — 

Men from the West, but where I know not ; 
Haggard and travel-stained, worn and gray, 

With never a ribbon or lace or bow-knot: 

And I opened the window, and, leaning there, 

I felt in their presence the free winds blowing. 

My neck and shoulders and arms were bare, — 

I did not dream they might think me fair, 

But I had some flowers that night in my hair, 

And here, on my bosom, a red rose glowing. 

And I looked from the window along the line, 

Dusty and dirty and grim and solemn, 

Till an eye like a bayonet flash met mine, 

And a dark face shone from the darkening column, 
And a quick flame leaped to my eyes and hair, 

Till cheeks and shoulders burned all together, 

And the next I found myself standing there 
With my eyelids wet and my cheeks less fair, 


AN ARCTIC VISION 


Where the short-legged Esquimaux 
Waddle in the ice and snow, 

And the playful Polar bear 
Nips the hunter unaware ; 

Where by day they track the ermine, 
And by night another vermin, — 
Segment of the frigid zone, 

Where the temperature alone 
Warms on St. Elias’ cone ; 

Polar dock, where Nature slips 
From the ways her icy ships ; 

Land of fox and deer and sable, 

Shore end of our western cable, — 
Let the news that flying goes 
Thrill through all your Arctic floes, 
And reverberate the boast 
From the cliffs off Beechey’s coast, 
Till the tidings, circling round 
Every hay of Norton Sound, 

Throw the vocal tide-wave hack 
To the isles of Kodiac. 

Let the stately Polar bears 
Waltz around the pole in pairs, 

And the walrus, in his glee, 

Bare his tusk of ivory ; 

While the hold sea-unicorn 
Calmly takes an extra horn ; 

All ye Polar skies, reveal your 



“ Polar dock where Nature slips 

From the ways her icy ships.” Page 40. 



























- 
























AN ARCTIC VISION 


41 


Very rarest of parhelia ; 

Trip it, all ye merry dancers, 

In the airiest of “ Lancers ; ” 

Slide, ye solemn glaciers, slide, 

One inch farther to the tide, 

Nor in rash precipitation 
Upset Tyndall’s calculation. 

Know you not what fate awaits you, 
Or to whom the future mates you ? 
All ye icebergs, make salaam, — 
You belong to Uncle Sam ! 

On the spot where Eugene Sue 
Led his wretched Wandering Jew, 
Stands a form whose features strike 
Russ and Esquimaux alike. 

He it is whom Skalds of old 
In their Runic rhymes foretold ; 
Lean of flank and lank of jaw, 

See the real Northern Thor ! 

See the awful Yankee leering 
Just across the Straits of Behring ; 
On the drifted snow, too plain, 

Sinks his fresh tobacco stain, 

Just beside the deep inden- 
Tation of his Number 10. 

Leaning on his icy hammer 
Stands the hero of this drama, 

And above the wild-duck’s clamor, 
In his own peculiar grammar, 

With its linguistic disguises, 

Lo ! the Arctic prologue rises : 

“ Wall, I reckon ’t ain’t so had, 

Seein’ ez ’t was all they had. 


42 


NATIONAL 


True, the Springs are rather late, 

And early Falls predominate ; 

But the ice-crop ’s pretty sure, 

And the air is kind o’ pure ; 

’T ain’t so very mean a trade, 

When the land is all surveyed. 

There ’s a right smart chance for fur-chase 
All along this recent purchase, 

And, unless the stories fail, 

Every fish from cod to whale ; 

Bocks, too ; mebbe quartz ; let ’s see, — 
’T would be strange if there should be, — 
Seems I ’ve heerd such stories told ; 

Eh ! — why, bless us, — yes, it ’s gold ! 99 

While the blows are falling thick 
From his California pick, 

You may recognize the Thor 
Of the vision that I saw, — 

Freed from legendary glamour, 

See the real magician’s hammer. 


ST. THOMAS 


(a GEOGRAPHICAL SURVEY, 1868) 

Very fair and full of promise 
Lay the island of St. Thomas : 

Ocean o’er its reefs and bars 
Hid its elemental scars ; 

Groves of cocoanut and guava 
Grew above its fields of lava. 

So the gem of the Antilles — 

“ Isles of Eden,” where no ill is — 

Like a great green turtle slumbered 
On the sea that it encumbered. 

Then said William Henry Seward, 

As he cast his eye to leeward, 

“ Quite important to our commerce 
Is this island of St. Thomas.” 

Said the Mountain ranges, “ Thank’ee, 
But we cannot stand the Yankee 
O’er our scars and fissures poring, 

In our very vitals boring, 

In our sacred caverns prying, 

All our secret problems trying, — 
Digging, blasting, with dynamit 
Mocking all our thunders ! Damn it ! 
Other lands may be more civil ; 

Bust our lava crust if we will ! ” 

Said the Sea, its white teeth gnashing 
Through its coral-reef lips flashing, 


44 


NATIONAL 


“ Shall I let this scheming mortal 
Shut with stone my shining portal, 

Curb my tide and check my play, 

Fence with wharves my shining hay ? 
Bather let me be drawn out 
In one awful waterspout ! ” 

Said the black-browed Hurricane, 
Brooding down the Spanish Main, 

“ Shall I see my forces, zounds ! 

Measured by square inch and pounds, 
With detectives at my back 
When I double on my track, 

And my secret paths made clear, 
Published o’er the hemisphere 
To each gaping, prying crew ? 

Shall I ? Blow me if I do ! ” 

So the Mountains shook and thundered, 
And the Hurricane came sweeping, 

And the people stared and wondered 
As the Sea came on them leaping : 
Each, according to his promise, 

Made things lively at St. Thomas. 

Till one morn, when Mr. Seward 
Cast his weather eye to leeward, 

There was not an inch of dry land 
Left to mark his recent island. 

Hot a flagstaff or a sentry, 

Not a wharf or port of entry, — 

Only — to cut matters shorter — 

Just a patch of muddy water 
In the open ocean lying, 

And a gull above it flying. 


OFF SCARBOROUGH 

(SEPTEMBER, 1779) 


I 

“ Have a care ! ” the bailiffs cried 
From their cockleshell that lay 
Off the frigate’s yellow side, 

Tossing on Scarborough Bay, 

While the forty sail it convoyed on a bowline stretched 
away. 

“ Take your chicks beneath your wings, 

And your claws and feathers spread. 

Ere the hawk upon them springs, — 

Ere around Flamborough Head 
Swoops Paul Jones, the Yankee falcon, with his beak and 
talons red.” 


n 

How we laughed ! — my mate and I, — 

On the “ Bon Homme Richard’s ” deck, 

As we saw that convoy fly 

Like a snow-squall, till each fleck 
Melted in the twilight shadows of the coast-line, speck by 
speck ; 

And scuffling back to shore 
The Scarborough bailiffs sped, 

As the “ Richard,” with a roar 
Of her cannon round the Head, 

Crossed her royal yards and signaled to her consort : 
“ Chase ahead ! ” 


46 


NATIONAL 


III 

But the devil seize Landais 

In that consort ship of France ! 

For the shabby, lubber way 

That he worked the “ Alliance ” 

In the offing, — nor a broadside fired save to our mis- 
chance ! — 

When tumbling to the van, 

With his battle-lanterns set, 

Bose the burly Englishman 

’Gainst our hull as black as jet, — 

Bode the yellow-sided “ Serapis,” and all alone we met ! 

IV 

All alone, though far at sea 

Hung his consort, rounding to j 

All alone, though on our lee 

Fought our “ Pallas,” stanch and true ! 

For the first broadside around us both a smoky circle drew : 

And, like champions in a ring, 

There was cleared a little space — 

Scarce a cable’s length to swing — 

Ere we grappled in embrace, 

All the world shut out around us, and we only face to 
face ! 


v 

Then awoke all hell below 

From that broadside, doubly curst, 

For our long eighteens in row 

Leaped the first discharge and burst ! 

And on deck our men came pouring, fearing their own guns 
the worst. 

And as dumb we lay, till, through 
Smoke and flame and bitter cry, 



From that broadside, doubly curst. ’ v Page 46. 



















OFF SCARBOROUGH 


47 


Hailed the “ Serapis : ” “ Have you 
Struck your colors ? ” Our reply, 

“ We have not yet begun to fight ! ” went shouting to the 
sky ! 

yi 

Roux of Brest, old fisher, lay 
Like a herring gasping here ; 

Bunker of Nantucket Bay, 

Blown from out the port, dropped sheer 
Half a Cable’s length to leeward ; yet we faintly raised a 
cheer 

As with his own right hand 
Our Commodore made fast 

The foeman’s head-gear and 
The “ Richard’s ” mizzen-mast, 

And in that death-lock clinging held us there from first to 
last ! 

VII 

Yet the foeman, gun on gun, 

Through the “ Richard ” tore a road, 

With his gunners’ rammers run 
Through our ports at every load, 

Till clear the blue beyond us through our yawning timbers 
showed. 

Yet with entrails torn we clung 
Like the Spartan to our fox, 

And on deck no coward tongue 
Wailed the enemy’s hard knocks, 

Nor that all below us trembled like a wreck upon the rocks. 

VIII 

Then a thought rose in my brain, 

As through Channel mists the sun. 

From our tops a fire like rain 
Drove below decks every one 
Of the enemy’s ship’s company to hide or work a gun : 


48 


NATIONAL 


And that thought took shape as I 
On the “ Richard’s ” yard lay out, 

That a man might do and die, 

If the doing brought about 

Freedom for his home and country, and his messmates’ 
cheering shout ! 

IX 

Then I crept out in the dark 
Till I hung above the hatch 
Of the “ Serapis,” — a mark 

For her marksmen ! — with a match 
And a hand-grenade, hut lingered just a moment more to 
snatch 

One last look at sea and sky ! 

At the lighthouse on the hill ! 

At the harvest-moon on high ! 

And our pine flag fluttering still ! 

Then turned and down her yawning throat I launched that 
devil’s pill ! 


x 

Then a blank was all between 
As the flames around me spun ! 

Had I fired the magazine ? 

Was the victory lost or won ? 

Nor knew I till the fight was o’er but half my work was 
done : 

For I lay among the dead 
In the cockpit of our foe, 

With a roar above my head, — 

Till a trampling to and fro, 

And a lantern showed my mate’s face, and I knew what 
now you know ! 


CADET GREY 


CANTO I 

i 

Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind 
Half cell, half salon, opulent yet grave ; 

Rare books, low-shelved, yet far above the mind 
Of common man to compass or to crave ; 

Some slight relief of pamphlets that inclined 
The soul at first to trifling, till, dismayed 
By text and title, it drew back resigned, 

Nor cared with levity to vex a shade 
That to itself such perfect concord made. 

ii 

Some thoughts like these perplexed the patriot brain 
Of Jones, Lawgiver to the Commonwealth, 

As on the threshold of this chaste domain 

He paused expectant, and looked up in stealth 
To darkened canvases that frowned amain, 

With stern-eyed Puritans, who first began 
To spread their roots in Georgius Primus’ reign, 

Nor dropped till now, obedient to some plan, 
Their century fruit, — the perfect Boston man. 

hi 

Somewhere within that Russia-scented gloom 
A voice catarrhal thrilled the Member’s ear : 

“ Brief is our business, Jones. Look round this room 
Regard yon portraits ! Read their meaning clear ! 


50 


NATIONAL 


These much proclaim my station. I presume 
You are our Congressman, before whose wit 
And sober judgment shall the youth appear 

Who for West Point is deemed most just and fit 
To serve his country and to honor it. 

IV 

“ Such is my son ! Elsewhere perhaps ’t were wise 
Trial competitive should guide your choice. 

There are some people I can well surmise 

Themselves must show their merits. History’s voice 
Spares me that trouble : all desert that lies 
In yonder ancestor of Queen Anne’s day, 

Or yon grave Governor, is all my boy’s, — 

Eeverts to him ; entailed, as one might say ; 

In brief, result in Winthrop Adams Grey ! ” 

v 

He turned and laid his well-bred hand, and smiled, 

On the cropped head of one who stood beside. 

Ah me! in sooth it was no ruddy child 

Nor brawny youth that thrilled the father’s pride ; 

’T was but a Mind that somehow had beguiled 
From soulless Matter processes that served 
For speech and motion and digestion mild, 

Content if all one moral purpose nerved, 

Nor recked thereby its spine were somewhat curved 

vi 

He was scarce eighteen. Yet ere he was eight 
He had despoiled the classics ; much he knew 
Of Sanskrit ; not that he placed undue weight 
On this, but that it helped him with Hebrew, 

His favorite tongue. He learned, alas ! too late, 

One can’t begin too early, — would regret 


CADET GREY 


51 


That boyish whim to ascertain the state 
Of Venus’ atmosphere made him forget 
That philologic goal on which his soul was set. 

YII 

He too had traveled ; at the age of ten 
Found Paris empty, dull except for art 
And accent. 11 Mabille ” with its glories then 
Less than Egyptian “ Almees ” touched a heart 
Nothing if not pure classic. If some men 
Thought him a prig, it vexed not his conceit, 

But moved his pity, and ofttimes his pen, 

The better to instruct them, through some sheet 
Published in Boston, and signed “ Beacon Street.” 

VIII 

From premises so plain the blind could see 
But one deduction, and it came next day. 

“ In times like these, the very name of G. 

Speaks volumes,” wrote the Honorable J. 

" Inclosed please find appointment.” Presently 
Came a reception to which Harvard lent 
Fourteen professors, and, to give esprit , 

The Liberal Club some eighteen ladies sent, 

Five that spoke Greek, and thirteen sentiment. 

IX 

Four poets came who loved each other’s song, 

And two philosophers, who thought that they 
Were in most things impractical and wrong ; 

And two reformers, each in his own way 
Peculiar, — one who had waxed strong 

On herbs and water, and such simple fare ; 

Two foreign lions, “ Ram See ” and “ Chy Long,” 
And several artists claimed attention there, 

Based on the fact they had been snubbed elsewhere. 


52 


NATIONAL 


X 

With this indorsement nothing now remained 
But counsel, Godspeed, and some calm adieux ; 

No foolish tear the father’s eyelash stained, 

And Winthrop’s cheek as guiltless shone of dew. 

A slight publicity, such as obtained 

In classic Borne, these few last hours attended. 
The day arrived, the train and depot gained, 

The mayor’s own presence this last act commended 
The train moved off, and here the first act ended. 


CANTO II 

i 

Where West Point crouches, and with lifted shield 
Turns the whole river eastward through the pass ; 
Whose jutting crags, half silver, stand revealed 
Like bossy bucklers of Leonidas ; 

Where buttressed low against the storms that wield 
Their summer lightnings where her eaglets swarm, 
By Freedom’s cradle Nature’s self has steeled 
Her heart, like Winkelried, and to that storm 
Of leveled lances bares her bosom warm. 

n 

But not to-night. The air and woods are still, 

The faintest rustle in the trees below, 

The lowest tremor from the mountain rill, 

Come to the ear as but the trailing flow 
Of spirit robes that walk unseen the hill ; 

The moon low sailing o’er the upland farm, 

The moon low sailing where the waters fill 
The lozenge lake, beside the banks of balm, 
Gleams like a chevron on the river’s arm. 


CADET GREY 


53 


iii 

All space breathes languor: from the hilltop high, 
Where Putnam’s bastion crumbles in the past, 

To swooning depths where drowsy cannon lie 

And wide-mouthed mortars gape in slumbers vast ; 
Stroke upon stroke, the far oars glance and die 
On the hushed bosom of the sleeping stream ; 

Bright for one moment drifts a white sail by, 

Bright for one moment shows a bayonet gleam 
Far on the level plain, then passes as a dream. 

IV 

Soft down the line of darkened battlements, 

Bright on each lattice of the barrack walls, 

Where the low arching sallyport indents, 

Seen through its gloom beyond, the moonbeam falls. 
All is repose save where the camping tents 

Mock the white gravestones farther on, where sound 
No morning guns for reveille , nor whence 

No drum-beat calls retreat, but still is ever found 
Waiting and present on each sentry’s round. 

v 

Within the camp they lie, the young, the brave, 

Half knight, half schoolboy, acolytes of fame, 

Pledged to one altar, and perchance one grave ; 

Bred to fear nothing but reproach and blame, 

Ascetic dandies o’er whom vestals rave, 

Clean-limbed young Spartans, disciplined young elves, 
Taught to destroy, that they may live to save, 

Students embattled, soldiers at their shelves, 

Heroes whose conquests are at first themselves. 

VI 

Within the camp they lie, in dreams are freed 
From the grim discipline they learn to love ; 


54 


NATIONAL 


In dreams no more the sentry’s challenge heed, 

In dreams afar beyond their pickets rove ; 

One treads once more the piny paths that lead 
To his green mountain home, and pausing hears 

The cattle call ; one treads the tangled weed * 

Of slippery rocks beside Atlantic piers ; 

One smiles in sleep, one wakens wet with tears. 

VII 

One scents the breath of jasmine flowers that twine 
The pillared porches of his Southern home ; 

One hears the coo of pigeons in the pine 

Of Western woods where he was wont to roam ; 

One sees the sunset fire the distant line 

Where the long prairie sweeps its levels down ; 

One treads the snow-peaks ; one by lamps that shine 
Down the broad highways of the sea-girt town ; 

And two are missing, — Cadets Grey and Brown ! 

VIII 

Much as I grieve to chronicle the fact, 

That selfsame truant known as “ Cadet Grey ” 

Was the young hero of our moral tract, 

Shorn of his twofold names on entrance-day. 

“ Winthrop ” and “ Adams 99 dropped in that one act 
Of martial curtness, and the roll-call thinned 

Of his ancestors, he with youthful tact 

Indulgence claimed, since Winthrop no more sinned, 
Nor sainted Adams winced when he, plain Grey, was 
“ skinned.” 


IX 

He had known trials since we saw him last, 

By sheer good luck had just escaped rejection, 
Not for his learning, hut that it was cast 

In a spare frame scarce fit for drill inspection ; 


CADET GREY 


55 


But when he ope’d his lips a stream so vast 
Of information flooded each professor, 

They quite forgot his eyeglass, — something past 
All precedent, — accepting the transgressor, 

Weak eyes and all of which he was possessor. 

x 

E’en the first day he touched a blackboard’s space — 
So the tradition of his glory lingers — 

Two wise professors fainted, each with face 
White as the chalk within his rapid fingers : 

All day he ciphered, at such frantic pace, 

His form was hid in chalk precipitation 
Of every problem, till they said his case 
Could meet from them no fair examination 
Till Congress made a new appropriation. 

XI 

Famous in molecules, he demonstrated 

From the mess hash to many a listening classful ; 
Great as a botanist, he separated 

Three kinds of “ Mentha ” in one julep’s glassful ; 
High in astronomy, it has been stated 

He was the first at West Point to discover 
Mars’ missing satellites, and calculated 

Their true positions, not the heavens over, 

But ’neath the window of Miss Kitty Bover. 

XII 

Indeed, I fear this novelty celestial 
That very night was visible and clear ; 

At least two youths of aspect most terrestrial, 

And clad in uniform, were loitering near 
A villa’s casement, where a gentle vestal 
Took their impatience somewhat patiently, 


56 


NATIONAL 


Knowing the youths were somewhat green and 
“ bestial ” — 

(A certain slang of the Academy, 

I beg the reader won’t refer to me). 

XIII 

For when they ceased their ardent strain, Miss Kitty 
Glowed not with anger nor a kindred flame, 

But rather flushed with an odd sort of pity, 

Half matron’s kindness, and half coquette’s shame ; 
Proud yet quite blameful, when she heard their ditty 
She gave her soul poetical expression, 

And being clever too, as she was pretty, 

From her high casement warbled this confession, — • 
Half provocation and one half repression : — 


NOT YET 

Not yet , O friend, not yet ! the patient stars 
Lean from their lattices, content to icait. 

All is illusion till the morning bars 
Slip from the levels of the Eastern gate. 

Night is too young, 0 friend ! day is too near ; 
Wait for the day that malceth all things clear. 
Not yet, 0 friend, not yet ! 

Not yet , 0 love, not yet ! all is not true, 

All is not ever as it seemeth now. 

Soon shall the river take another blue, 

Soon dies yon light upon the mountain brow. 
What lieth dark, 0 love, bright day will fill ; 
Wait for thy morning, be it good or ill. 

Not yet, 0 love, not yet ! 

XIV 

The strain was finished ; softly as the night 
Her voice died from the window, yet e’en then 


CADET GREY 


57 


Fluttered and fell likewise a kerchief white ; 

But that no doubt was accident, for when 
She sought her couch she deemed her conduct quite 
Beyond the reach of scandalous commenter, — 
Washing her hands of either gallant wight, 

Knowing the moralist might compliment her, — 

Thus voicing Siren with the words of Mentor. 

xv 

She little knew the youths below, who straight 
Dived for her kerchief, and quite overlooked 
The pregnant moral she would inculcate ; 

Nor dreamed the less how little Winthrop brooked 
Her right to doubt his soul’s maturer state. 

Brown — who was Western, amiable, and new — 
Might take the moral and accept his fate ; 

The which he did, but, being stronger too, 

Took the white kerchief, also, as his due. 

XVI 

They did not quarrel, which no doubt seemed queer 
To those who knew not how their friendship blended ; 
Each was opposed, and each the other’s peer, 

Yet each the other in some things transcended. 

Where Brown lacked culture, brains, — and oft, I fear, 
Cash in his pocket, — Grey of course supplied him ; 
Where Grey lacked frankness, force, and faith sincere, 
Brown of his manhood suffered none to chide him, 
But in his faults stood manfully beside him. 

XVII 

In academic walks and studies grave, 

In the camp drill and martial occupation, 

They helped each other ; but just here I crave 
Space for the reader’s full imagination, — 


58 


NATIONAL 


The fact is patent, Grey became a slave ! 

A tool, a fag, a “ pleb 99 ! To state it plainer, 

All that blue blood and ancestry e’er gave 

Cleaned guns, brought water ! — was, in fact, retainer 
To Jones, whose uncle was a paper-stainer ! 

XVIII 

How they bore this at home I cannot say : 

I only know so runs the gossip’s tale. 

It chanced one day that the paternal Grey 

Came to West Point that he himself might hail 
The future hero in some proper way 

Consistent with his lineage. With him came 
A judge, a poet, and a brave array 

Of aunts and uncles, bearing each a name, 

Eyeglass and respirator with the same. 

XIX 

" Observe ! ” quoth Grey the elder to his friends, 

“ Not in these giddy youths at baseball playing 
You ’ll notice Winthrop Adams ! Greater ends 
Than these absorb his leisure. No doubt straying 
With Caesar’s Commentaries, he attends 

Some Roman council. Let us ask, however, 

Yon grimy urchin, who my soul offends 
By wheeling offal, if he will endeavor 
To find — What ! heaven ! Winthrop ! Oh ! no 
never ! ” 


xx 

Alas ! too true ! The last of all the Greys 
Was “ doing police detail,” — it had come 
To this ; in vain the rare historic bays 

That crowned the pictured Puritans at home ! 
And yet ’t was certain that in grosser ways 


CADET GREY 


59 


Of health and physique he was quite improving. 

Straighter he stood, and had achieved some praise 
In other exercise, much more behooving 
A soldier’s taste than merely dirt removing. 

XXI 

But to resume : we left the youthful pair, 

Some stanzas back, before a lady’s bower ; 

’T is to he hoped they were no longer there, 

For stars were pointing to the morning hour. 

Their escapade discovered, ill ’t would fare 
With our two heroes, derelict of orders ; 

But, like the ghost, they “ scent the morning air,” 
And back again they steal across the borders, 
Unseen, unheeded, by their martial warders. 

XXII 

They got to bed with speed : young Grey to dream 
Of some vague future with a general’s star, 

And Mistress Kitty basking in its gleam ; 

While Brown, content to worship her afar, 

Dreamed himself dying by some lonely stream, 

Having snatched Kitty from eighteen Nez Perces, 

Till a far bugle, with the morning beam, 

In his dull ear its fateful song rehearses, 

Which Winthrop Adams after put to verses. 

XXIII 

So passed three years of their novitiate, 

The first real boyhood Grey had ever known. 

His youth ran clear, — not choked like his Cochituate, 
In civic pipes, but free and pure alone ; 

Yet knew repression, could himself habituate 
To having mind and body well rubbed down, 

Could read himself in others, and could situate 


60 NATIONAL 

Themselves in him, — except, I grieve to own, 

He could n’t see what Kitty saw in Brown ! 

XXIV 

At last came graduation ; Brown received 
In the One Hundredth Cavalry commission ; 

Then frolic, flirting, parting, — when none grieved 
Save Brown, who loved our young Academician, 

And Grey, who felt his friend was still deceived 
By Mistress Kitty, who with other beauties 
Graced the occasion, and it was believed 

Had promised Brown that when he could recruit his 
Promised command, she ’d share with him those duties. 

XXV 

Howe’er this was I know not ; all I know, 

The night was June’s, the moon rode high and clear ; 

“ ’T was such a night as this,” three years ago, 

Miss Kitty sang the song that two might hear. 

There is a walk where trees o’erarching grow, 

Too wide for one, not wide enough for three 
(A fact precluding any plural beau), 

Which quite explained Miss Kitty’s company, 

But not why Grey that favored one should be. 

XXVI 

There is a spring, whose limpid waters hide 
Somewhere within the shadows of that path 
Called Kosciusko’s. There two figures bide, — 

Grey and Miss Kitty. Surely Nature hath 
No fairer mirror for a might-be bride 

Than this same pool that caught our gentle belle 
To its dark heart one moment. At her side 

Grey bent. A something trembled o’er the well, 
Bright, spherical — a tear ? Ah no ! a button fell’! 


CADET OBEY 


61 


XXYII 

a Material minds might think that gravitation,” 

Quoth Grey, “ drew yon metallic spheroid down. 

The soul poetic views the situation 

Fraught with more meaning. When thy girlish crown 
Was mirrored there, there was disintegration 
Of me, and all my spirit moved to you, 

Taking the form of slow precipitation ! ” 

But here came “ Taps,” a start, a smile, adieu ! 

A blush, a sigh, and end of Canto II. 

BUGLE SONG 

Fades the light , 

And afar 

Goeth day, cometh night; 

And a star 

Leadeth all , 

Speedeth all 

To their rest 1 

Love , good-night ! 

Must thou go 
When the day 
And the light 

Need thee so, — * 

Needeth all, 

Heedeth all, 

That is best ? 


CANTO III 

i 

Where the sun sinks through leagues of arid sky, 
Where the sun dies o’er leagues of arid plain, 
Where the dead hones of wasted rivers lie, 

Trailed from their channels in yon mountain chain ; 
Where day by day naught takes the wearied eye 


62 


NATIONAL 


But the low-rimming mountains, sharply based 
On the dead levels, moving far or nigh, 

As the sick vision wanders o’er the waste, 

But ever day by day against the sunset traced : 

n 

There moving through a poisonous cloud that stings 
With dust of alkali the trampling band 
Of Indian ponies, ride on dusky wings 
The red marauders of the Western land ; 

Heavy with spoil, they seek the trail that brings 
Their flaunting lances to that sheltered bank 
Where lie their lodges ; and the river sings 
Forgetful of the plain beyond, that drank 
Its life blood, where the wasted caravan sank. 

hi 

They brought with them the thief’s ignoble spoil, 
The beggar’s dole, the greed of chiffonnier , 

The scum of camps, the implements of toil 

Snatched from dead hands, to rust as useless here 
All they could rake or glean from hut or soil 

Piled their lean ponies, with the jackdaw’s greed 
For vacant glitter. It were scarce a foil 
To all this tinsel that one feathered reed 
Bore on its barb two scalps that freshly bleed ! 

IV 

They brought with them, alas ! a wounded foe, 
Bound hand and foot, yet nursed with cruel care, 
Lest that in death he might escape one throe 
They had decreed his living flesh should bear : 

A youthful officer, by one foul blow 
Of treachery surprised, yet fighting still 
Amid his ambushed train, calm as the snow 


CADET GREY 


63 


Above him ; hopeless, yet content to spill 
His blood with theirs, and fighting but to kill. 

v 

He had fought nobly, and in that brief spell 
Had won the awe of those rude border men 
Who gathered round him, and beside him fell 
In loyal faith and silence, save that when 
By smoke embarrassed, and near sight as well, 

He paused to wipe his eyeglass, and decide 
Its nearer focus, there arose a yell 

Of approbation, and Bob Barker cried, 

“ Wade in, Dundreary ! ” tossed his cap and — died. 

VI 

Their sole survivor now ! his captors bear 
Him all unconscious, and beside the stream 
Leave him to rest ; meantime the squaws prepare 
The stake for sacrifice : nor wakes a gleam 
Of pity in those Furies’ eyes that glare 
Expectant of the torture ; yet alway 
His steadfast spirit shines and mocks them there 
With peace they know not, till at close of day 
On his dull ear there thrills a whispered “ Grey ! ” 

VII 

He starts ! Was it a trick ? Had angels kind 

Touched with compassion some weak woman’s breast ? 
Such things he ’d read of ! Faintly to his mind 
Came Pocahontas pleading for her guest. 

But then, this voice, though soft, was still inclined 
To baritone ! A squaw in ragged gown 
Stood near him, frowning hatred. Was he blind ? 
Whose eye was this beneath that beetling frown ? 

The frown was painted, but that wink meant — 
Brown ! 


64 


NATIONAL 


VIII 

“ Hush ! for your life and mine ! the thongs are cut,” 

He whispers ; u in yon thicket stands my horse. 

One dash ! — I follow close, as if to glut 
My own revenge, yet bar the others’ course. 

How ! ” And ’t is done. Grey speeds, Brown follows ; 
hut 

Ere yet they reach the shade, Grey, fainting, reels, 

Yet not before Brown’s circling arms close shut 
His in, uplifting him ! Anon he feels 
A horse beneath him bound, and hears the rattling 
heels. 


IX 

Then rose a yell of baffled hate, and sprang 
Headlong the savages in swift pursuit ; 

Though speed the fugitives, they hope to hang 

Hot on their heels, like wolves, with tireless foot. 
Long is the chase ; Brown hears with inward pang 
The short, hard panting of his gallant steed 
Beneath its double burden ; vainly rang 

Both voice and spur. The heaving flanks may bleed, 
Yet comes the sequel that they still must heed ! 

x 

Brown saw it — reined his steed ; dismounting, stood 
Calm and inflexible. “ Old chap ! you see 
There is but one escape. You know it ? Good ! 

There is one man to take it. You are he. 

The horse won’t carry double. If he could, 

’T would but protract this bother. I shall stay : 

I ’ve business with these devils, they with me ; 

I will occupy them till you get away. 

Hush ! quick time, forward. There ! God bless you, 
Grey ! ” 


CADET GREY 


65 


XI 

But as he finished, Grey slipped to his feet, 

Calm as his ancestors in voice and eye : 

11 You do forget yourself when you compete 
With him whose right it is to stay and die : 

That ’s not your duty. Please regain your seat ; 

And take my orders — since I rank you here ! — 
Mount and rejoin your men, and my defeat 
Report at quarters. Take this letter ; ne’er 
Give it to aught hut her , nor let aught interfere.’ , 

XII 

And, shamed and blushing, Brown the letter took 
Obediently and placed it in his pocket ; 

Then, drawing forth another, said, “ I look 

For death as you do, wherefore take this locket 
And letter.” Here his comrade’s hand he shook 
In silence. u Should we both together fall, 

Some other man ” — hut here all speech forsook 
His lips, as ringing cheerily o’er all 
He heard afar his own dear bugle-call ! 

XIII 

’T was his command and succor, but e’en then 
Grey fainted, with poor Brown, who had forgot 
He likewise had been wounded, and both men 
Were picked up quite unconscious of their lot. 
Long lay they in extremity, and when 

They both grew stronger, and once more exchanged 
Old vows and memories, one common “ den ” 

In hospital was theirs, and free they ranged, 
Awaiting orders, but no more estranged. 

xiv 

And yet ’t was strange — nor can I end my tale 
Without this moral, to be fair and just : 


66 


NATIONAL 


They never sought to know why each did fail 
The prompt fulfillment of the other’s trust. 

It was suggested they could not avail 

Themselves of either letter, since they were 
Duly dispatched to their address by mail 
By Captain X., who knew Miss Kover fair 
Now meant stout Mistress Bloggs of Blank Blank 
Square. 


II. SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 
THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO 


This is the tale that the Chronicle 
Tells of the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the pious Padre Serro, 

The very reverend Junipero. 

The heathen stood on his ancient mound, 
Looking over the desert bound 
Into the distant, hazy South, 

Over the dusty and broad champaign, 

Where, with many a gaping mouth 
And fissure, cracked by the fervid drouth, 

For seven months had the wasted plain 
Known no moisture of dew or rain. 

The wells were empty and choked with sand ; 
The rivers had perished from the land ; 

Only the sea-fogs to and fro 

Slipped like ghosts of the streams below. 

Deep in its bed lay the river’s bones, 
Bleaching in pebbles and milk-white stones, 
And tracked o’er the desert faint and far, 

Its ribs shone bright on each sandy bar. 

Thus they stood as the sun went down 
Over the foot-hills bare and brown ; 

Thus they looked to the South, wherefrom 
The pale-face medicine-man should come, 

Not in anger or in strife, 


68 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


But to bring — so ran the tale — 

The welcome springs of eternal life, 

The living waters that should not fail. 

Said one, “ He will come like Manitou, 
Unseen, unheard, in the falling dew.” 

Said another, “ He will come full soon 
Out of the round-faced watery moon.” 

And another said, “ He is here ! ” and lo, 
Faltering, staggering, feeble and slow, 

Out from the desert’s blinding heat 
TThe Padre dropped at the heathen’s feet. 

They stood and gazed for a little space 
Down on his pallid and careworn face, 

And a smile of scorn went round the band 
As they touched alternate with foot and hand 
This mortal waif, that the outer space 
Of dim mysterious sky and sand 
Flung with so little of Christian grace 
Down on their barren, sterile strand. 

Said one to him : “ It seems thy God 
Is a very pitiful kind of God : 

He could not shield thine aching eyes 
From the blowing desert sands that rise, 

Nor turn aside from thy old gray head 
The glittering blade that is brandished 
By the sun He set in the heavens high ; 

He could not moisten thy lips when dry ; 

The desert fire is in thy brain ; 

Thy limbs are racked with the fever-pain ; 

If this be the grace He showeth thee 
Who art His servant, what may we, 

Strange to His ways and His commands, 

Seek at His unforgiving hands ? ” 


THE MIRACLE OF PADRE JUNIPERO 


69 


“ Drink but this cup,” said the Padre, straight, 

<e And thou shalt know whose mercy bore 
These aching limbs to your heathen door, 

And purged my soul of its gross estate. 

Drink in His name, and thou shalt see 
The hidden depths of this mystery. 

Drink ! ” and he held the cup. One blow 
From the heathen dashed to the ground below 
The sacred cup that the Padre bore, 

And the thirsty soil drank the precious store 
Of sacramental and holy wine, 

That emblem and consecrated sign 
And blessed symbol of blood divine. 

Then, says the legend (and they who doubt 
The same as heretics be accurst), 

From the dry and feverish soil leaped out 
A living fountain ; a well-spring burst 
Over the dusty and broad champaign, 

Over the sandy and sterile plain, 

Till the granite ribs and the milk-white stones 
That lay in the valley — the scattered bones — 
Moved in the river and lived again I 

Such was the wonderful miracle 
Wrought by the cup of wine that fell 
From the hands of the pious Padre Serro, 

The very reverend Junipero. 


THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 

Of all the fountains that poets sing, — 

Crystal, thermal, or mineral spring, 

Ponce de Leon’s Fount of Youth, 

Wells with bottoms of doubtful truth, — 

In short, of all the springs of Time 
That ever were flowing in fact or rhyme, 

That ever were tasted, felt, or seen, 

There were none like the Spring of San Joaquin. 

Anno Domini eighteen-seven, 

Father Dominguez (now in heaven, — 

Obiit eighteen twenty-seven) 

Found the spring, and found it, too, 

By his mule’s miraculous cast of a shoe ; 

For his beast — a descendant of Balaam’s ass — 
Stopped on the instant, and would not pass. 

The Padre thought the omen good, 

And bent his lips to the trickling flood; 

Then — as the Chronicles declare, 

On the honest faith of a true believer — 

His eheeks, though wasted, lank, and bare, 

Filled like a withered russet pear 
In the vacuum of a glass receiver, 

And the snows that seventy winters bring 
Melted away in that magic spring. 

Such, at least, was the wondrous news 
The Padre brought into Santa Cruz. 


THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 

The Church, of course, had its own views 
Of who were worthiest to use 
The magic spring ; but the prior claim 
Fell to the aged, sick, and lame. 

Far and wide the people came : 

Some from the healthful Aptos Creek 
Hastened to bring their helpless sick ; 

Even the fishers of rude Soquel 
Suddenly found they were far from well ; 
The brawny dwellers of San Lorenzo 
Said, in fact, they had never been so ; 

And all were ailing, — strange to say, — 
From Pescadero to Monterey. 

Over the mountain they poured in, 

With leathern bottles and bags of skin ; 
Through the canons a motley throng 
Trotted, hobbled, and limped along. 

The Fathers gazed at the moving scene 
With pious joy and with souls serene ; 

And then — a result perhaps foreseen — 
They laid out the Mission of San Joaquin. 

Hot in the eyes of faith alone 
The good effects of the water shone ; 

But skins grew rosy, eyes waxed clear, 

Of rough vaquero and muleteer ; 

Angular forms were rounded out, 

Limbs grew supple and waists grew stout 5 
And as for the girls, — for miles about 
They had no equal ! To this day, 

From Pescadero to Monterey, 

You T1 still find eyes in which are seen 
The liquid graces of San Joaquin. 


72 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


There is a limit to human bliss, 

And the Mission of San Joaquin had this ; 

None went abroad to roam or stay 

But they fell sick in the queerest way, — 

A singular maladie du pays, 

With gastric symptoms : so they spent 
Their days in a sensuous content, 

Caring little for things unseen 
Beyond their bowers of living green, 

Beyond the mountains that lay between 
The world and the Mission of San Joaquin. 

Winter passed, and the summer came ; 

The trunks of madrono, all aflame, 

Here and there through the underwood 
Like pillars of fire starkly stood. 

All of the breezy solitude 

Was filled with the spicing of pine and bay 
And resinous odors mixed and blended ; 

And dim and ghostlike, far away, 

The smoke of the burning woods ascended. 
Then of a sudden the mountains swam, 

The rivers piled their floods in a dam, 

The ridge above Los Gatos Creek 
Arched its spine in a feline fashion ; 

The forests waltzed till they grew sick, 

And Nature shook in a speechless passion ; 
And, swallowed up in the earthquake’s spleen, 
The wonderful Spring of San Joaquin 
Vanished, and never more was seen ! 

Two days passed : the Mission folk 
Out of their rosy dream awoke ; 

Some of them looked a trifle white, 

But that, no doubt, was from earthquake fright. 


THE WONDERFUL SPRING OF SAN JOAQUIN 73 


Three days : there was sore distress, 
Headache, nausea, giddiness. 

Four days : faintings, tenderness 
Of the mouth and fauces ; and in less 
Than one week — here the story closes ; 
We won’t continue the prognosis — 
Enough that now no trace is seen 
Of Spring or Mission of San Joaquin. 

MORAL 

You see the point ? Don’t he too quick 
To break bad habits : better stick, 

Like the Mission folk, to your arsenic . 


THE ANGELUS 


(heard AT THE MISSION DOLORES, 1868) 

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 
Still fills the wide expanse, 

Tingeing the sober twilight of the Present 
With color of romance ! 

I hear your call, and see the sun descending 
On rock and wave and sand, 

As down the coast the Mission voices, blending, 
Girdle the heathen land. 

Within the circle of your incantation 
No blight nor mildew falls ; 

Nor fierce unrest, nor lust, nor low ambition 
Passes those airy walls. 

Borne on the swell of your long waves receding, 
I touch the farther Past ; 

I see the dying glow of Spanish glory, 

The sunset dream and last ! 

Before me rise the dome-shaped Mission towers, 
The white Presidio ; 

The swart commander in his leathern jerkin, 
The priest in stole of snow. 

Once more I see Portala’s cross uplifting 
Above the setting sun j 


THE ANGELUS 


And past the headland, northward, slowly drifting, 
The freighted galleon. 

0 solemn hells ! whose consecrated masses 
Recall the faith of old ; 

0 tinkling hells ! that lulled with twilight music 
The spiritual fold ! 

Your voices break and falter in the darkness, — 
Break, falter, and are still ; 

And veiled and mystic, like the Host descending. 
The sun sinks from the hill ! 


CONCEPCION DE AKGUELLO 


(PRESIDIO DE SAN FRANCISCO, 1800) 

I 

Looking seaward, o’er the sand-hills stands the fortress, 
old and quaint, 

By the San Francisco friars lifted to their patron saint, — 

Sponsor to that wondrous city, now apostate to the creed, 

On whose youthful walls the Padre saw the angel’s golden 
reed ; 

All its trophies long since scattered, all its blazon brushed 
away ; 

And the flag that flies above it hut a triumph of to-day. 

Never scar of siege or battle challenges the wandering 
eye, 

Never breach of warlike onset holds the curious passer-by ; 

Only one sweet human fancy interweaves its threads of 
gold 

With the plain and homespun present, and a love that 
ne’er grows old ; 

Only one thing holds its crumbling walls above the meaner 
dust, — 

Listen to the simple story of a woman’s love and trust. 


CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 


77 


ii 

Count von Resanoff, the Russian, envoy of the mighty Czar, 

Stood beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 
are. 

He with grave provincial magnates long had held serene 
debate 

On the Treaty of Alliance and the high affairs of state ; 

He from grave provincial magnates oft had turned to talk 
apart 

With the Commandante’s daughter on the questions of the 
heart, 

Until points of gravest import yielded slowly one by one, 

And by Love was consummated what Diplomacy begun j 

Till beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 
are, 

He received the twofold contract for approval of the Czar ; 

Till beside the brazen cannon the betrothed bade adieu, 

And from sallyport and gateway north the Russian eagles 
flew. 


hi 

Long beside the deep embrasures, where the brazen cannon 
are, 

Did they wait the promised bridegroom and the answer of 
the Czar ; 

Day by day on wall and bastion beat the hollow, empty 
breeze, — 

Day by day the sunlight glittered on the vacant, smiling 


78 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


Week by week the near hills whitened in their dusty 
leather cloaks, — 

Week by week the far hills darkened from the fringing 
plain of oaks ; 

Till the rains came, and far breaking, on the fierce south- 
wester tost, 

Dashed the whole long coast with color, and then vanished 
and were lost. 

So each year the seasons shifted, — wet and warm and 
drear and dry ; 

Half a year of clouds and flowers, half a year of dust and 
sky. 

Still it brought no ship nor message, — brought no tidings, 
ill or meet, 

For the statesmanlike Commander, for the daughter fair 
and sweet. 

Yet she heard the varying message, voiceless to all ears 
beside : 

" He will come,” the flowers whispered ; “ Come no more,” 
the dry hills sighed. 

Still she found him with the waters lifted by the morning 
breeze, — 

Still she lost him with the folding of the great white- 
tented seas ; 

Until hollows chased the dimples from her cheeks of olive 
brown, 

And at times a swift, shy moisture dragged the long sweet 
lashes down ; 


CONCEPCION DE AKOUELLO 79 

Or the small mouth curved and quivered as for some denied 
caress, 

And the fair young brow was knitted in an infantine 
distress. * 

Then the grim Commander, pacing where the brazen cannon 
are, 

Comforted the maid with proverbs, wisdom gathered from 
afar ; 

Bits of ancient observation by his fathers garnered, each 

As a pebble worn and polished in the current of his 
speech : 

“ 1 Those who wait the coming rider travel twice as far as 
he ; 9 

‘ Tired wench and coming butter never did in time agree ; 7 

" ‘ He that getteth himself honey, though a clown, he shall 
have flies ; , 

i In the end God grinds the miller ; 7 1 In the dark the 
mole has eyes ; 7 

“ ‘ He whose father is Alcalde of his trial hath no fear/ — 

And be sure the Count has reasons that will make his con- 
duct clear.” 

Then the voice sententious faltered, and the wisdom it 
would teach 

Lost itself in fondest trifles of his soft Castilian speech ; 

And on “ Concha,” “ Conchitita,” and “Conchita” he 
would dwell 

With the fond reiteration which the Spaniard knows so 
well. 


80 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

So with proverbs and caresses, half in faith and half in 
doubt, 

Every day some hope was kindled, flickered, faded, and 
went out. 


IV 

Yearly, down the hillside sweeping, came the stately caval- 
cade, 

Bringing revel to vaquero, joy and comfort to each maid ; 

Bringing days of formal visit, social feast and rustic sport, 

Of bull-baiting on the plaza, of love-making in the court. 

Vainly then at Concha’s lattice, vainly as the idle wind, 

Bose the thin high Spanish tenor that bespoke the youth 
too kind ; 

Vainly, leaning from their saddles, caballeros, bold and 
fleet, 

Plucked for her the buried chicken from beneath their 
mustang’s feet ; 

So in vain the barren hillsides with their gay serapes 
blazed, — 

Blazed and vanished in the dust-cloud that their flying 
hoofs had raised. 

Then the drum called from the rampart, and once more, 
with patient mien, 

The Commander and his daughter each took up the dull 
routine, — 

Each took up the petty duties of a life apart and lone, 

Till the slow years wrought a music in its dreary mono- 
tone. 


t 


CONCEPCION DE ARGUELLO 


81 


V 

Forty years on wall and bastion swept the hollow idle 
breeze, 

Since the Russian eagle fluttered from the California seas ; 

Forty years on wall and bastion wrought its slow but sure 
decay, 

And St. George’s cross was lifted in the port of Monterey ; 

And the citadel was lighted, and the hall was gayly drest, 

All to honor Sir George Simpson, famous traveler and 
guest. 

Far and near the people gathered to the costly banquet set, 

And exchanged congratulations with the English baronet ; 

Till, the formal speeches ended, and amidst the laugh and 
wine, 

Some one spoke of Concha’s lover, — heedless of the warn- 
ing sign. ^ 

Quickly then cried Sir George Simpson : “ Speak no ill of 
him, I pray ! 

He is dead. He died, poor fellow, forty years ago this 
day,— 

“Died while speeding home to Russia, falling from a frac- 
tious horsA^ 

Left a sweetheart, --too, they tell me. Married, I suppose, 
of course ! 

u Lives she yet ? ” A deathlike silence fell on banquet, 
guests, and hall, 

And a trembling figure rising fixed the awestruck gaze of 
all. 


82 SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Two black eyes in darkened orbits gleamed beneath the 
nun’s white hood j 

Black serge hid the wasted figure, bowed and stricken 
where it stood. 

“ Lives she yet ? ” Sir George repeated. All were hushed 
as Concha drew 

Closer yet her nun’s attire. " Senor, pardon, she died, 
too ! ” 


“FOR THE KIHG” 


(NORTHERN MEXICO, 1640) 

As you look from the plaza at Leon west 

You can see her house, but the view is best 

From the porch of the church where she lies at rest 

Where much of her past still lives, I think, 

In the scowling brows and sidelong blink 
Of the worshiping throng that rise or sink 

To the waxen saints that, yellow and lank, 

Lean out from their niches, rank on rank, 

With a bloodless Saviour on either flank ; 

In the gouty pillars, whose cracks begin 
To show the adobe core within, — *• 

A soul of earth in a whitewashed skin. 

And I think that the moral of all, you ’ll say, 

Is the sculptured legend that moulds away 
On a tomb in the choir : “ Por el Rey.” 

“ Por el Rey ! ” Well, the king is gone 
Ages ago, and the Hapsburg one 
Shot — but the Rock of the Church lives on. 

“ Por el Rey l v What matters, indeed, 

If king or president succeed 

To a country haggard with sloth and greed, 


84 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


As long as one granary is fat, 

And yonder priest, in a shovel hat, 

Peeps out from the bin like a sleek brown rat ? 

What matters ? Naught, if it serves to bring 
The legend nearer, — no other thing, — 

We ’ll spare the moral, “ Live the king ! ” 

Two hundred years ago, they say, 

The Viceroy, Marquis of Monte-Rey, 

Rode with his retinue that way : 

Grave, as befitted Spain’s grandee ; 

Grave, as the substitute should he 
Of His Most Catholic Majesty ; 

Yet, from his black plume’s curving grace 
To his slim black gauntlet’s smaller space, 

Exquisite as a piece of lace ! 

Two hundred years ago — e’en so — 

The Marquis stopped where the lime-trees blow, 
While Leon’s seneschal bent him low, 

And begged that the Marquis would that night take 
His humble roof for the royal sake, 

And then, as the custom demanded, spake 

The usual wish, that his guest would hold 
The house, and all that it might enfold, 

As his — with the bride scarce three days old. 

Be sure that the Marquis, in his place, 

Replied to all with the measured grace 
Of chosen speech and unmoved face ; 


FOR THE KING 


85 


« 


Nor raised his head till his black plume swept 
The hem of the lady’s robe, who kept 
Her place, as her husband backward stept. 

And then (I know not how nor why) 

A subtle flame in the lady’s eye — 

Unseen by the courtiers standing by — 

Burned through his lace and titled wreath, 

Burned through his body’s jeweled sheath, 

Till it touched the steel of the man beneath ! 

(And yet, mayhap, no more was meant 
Than to point a well-worn compliment, 

And the lady’s- beauty, her worst intent.) 

Howbeit, the Marquis bowed again : 

“ Who rules with awe well serveth Spain, 

But best whose law is love made plain.” 

Be sure that night no pillow prest 
The seneschal, but with the rest 
Watched, as was due a royal guest, — 

Watched from the wall till he saw the square 
Fill with the moonlight, white and bare, — 
Watched till he saw two shadows fare 

Out from his garden, where the shade 
That the old church tower and belfry made 
Like a benedictory hand was laid. 

Few words spoke the seneschal as he turned 
To his nearest sentry : “ These monks have learned 
That stolen fruit is sweetly earned. 


86 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


(i Myself shall punish yon acolyte 
Who gathers my garden grapes by night ; 
Meanwhile, wait thou till the morning light.” 

Yet not till the sun was riding high 
Did the sentry meet his commander’s eye, 

Nor then till the Viceroy stood by. 

To the lovers of grave formalities 
No greeting was ever so fine, I wis, 

As this host’s and guest’s high courtesies ! 

The seneschal feared, as the wind was west, 

A blast from Morena had chilled his rest ; 
The Viceroy languidly contest 

That cares of state, and — he dared to say — 
Some fears that the King could not repay 
The thoughtful zeal of his host, some way 

Had marred his rest. Yet he trusted much 
None shared his wakefulness ; though such 
Indeed might be ! If he dared to touch 

A theme so fine — the bride, perchance, 

Still slept ! At least, they missed her glance 
To give this greeting countenance. 

Be sure that the seneschal, in turn, 

Was deeply bowed with the grave concern 
Of the painful news his guest should learn : 

' tf Last night, to her father’s dying bed 
By a priest was the lady summoned ; 

Nor know we yet how well she sped, 


FOR THE KING 


87 


« 

“ But hope for the best.” The grave Viceroy 
(Though grieved his visit had such alloy) 
Must still wish the seneschal great joy 

Of a bride so true to her filial trust ! 

Yet now, as the day waxed on, they must 
To horse, if they ’& ’scape the noonday dust. 

“ Nay,” said the seneschal, “ at least, 

To mend the news of this funeral priest, 
Myself shall ride as your escort east.” 

The Viceroy bowed. Then turned aside 
To his nearest follower : “ With me ride — 
You and Felipe — on either side. 

“ And list ! Should anything me befall, 
Mischance of ambush or musket-ball, 

Cleave to his saddle yon seneschal ! 

u No more.” Then gravely in accents clear 
Took formal leave of his late good cheer ; 
Whiles the seneschal whispered a musketeer* 

Carelessly stroking his pommel top : 

“ If from the saddle ye see me drop, 

Biddle me quickly yon solemn fop ! ” 

So these, with many a compliment, 

Each on his own dark thought intent, 

With grave politeness onward went, 

Biding high, and in sight of all, 

Viceroy, escort, and seneschal, 

Under the shade of the Almandral ; 


88 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


Holding their secret hard and fast, 

Silent and grave they ride at last 
Into the dusty traveled Past. 

Even like this they passed away 
Two hundred years ago to-day. 

What of the lady ? Who shall say ? 

Do the souls of the dying ever yearn 
To some favored spot for the dust’s return, 
For the homely peace of the family urn ? 

I know not. Yet did the seneschal, 
Chancing in after-years to fall 
Pierced by a Flemish musket-hall, 

Call to his side a trusty friar, 

And bid him swear, as his last desire, 

To bear his corse to San Pedro’s choir 

At Leon, where ’neath a shield azure 
Should his mortal frame find sepulture : 
This much, for the pains Christ did endure. 

Be sure that the friar loyally 
Fulfilled his trust by land and sea, 

Till the spires of Leon silently 

Bose through the green of the Almandral, 

As if to beckon the seneschal 

To his kindred dust ’neath the choir wall. 

I wot that the saints on either side 
Leaned from their niches open-eyed 
To see the doors of the church swing wide ; 


FOR THE KING 


89 


That the wounds of the Saviour on either flank 
Bled fresh, as the mourners, rank by rank, 
Went by with the coflin, clank on clank. 

For why ? When they raised the marble door 
Of the tomb, untouched for years before, 

The friar swooned on the choir floor ; 

For there, in her laces and festal dress, 

Lay the dead man’s wife, her loveliness 
Scarcely changed by her long duress, — 

As on the night she had passed away ; 

Only that near her a dagger lay, 

With the written legend, “ Por el Bey.” 

What was their greeting, the groom and bride, 
They whom that steel and the years divide ? 

I know not. Here they lie side by side. 

Side by side ! Though the king has his way, 
Even the dead at last have their day. 

Make you the moral. “ Por el Bey ! ” 


RAMON 


(refugio MINE, NORTHERN MEXICO) 

Drunk and senseless in his place, 

Prone and sprawling on his face, 

More like brute than any man 
Alive or dead, 

By his great pump out of gear, 

Lay the peon engineer, 

Waking only just to hear, 

Overhead, 

Angry tones that called his name, 

Oaths and cries of bitter blame, — 

Woke to hear all this, and, waking, turned and fled ! 

t( To the man who ’ll bring to me,” 

Cried Intendant Harry Lee, — 

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — 

“ Bring the sot alive or dead, 

I will give to him,” he said, 

“ Fifteen hundred pesos down, 

Just to set the rascal’s crown 
Underneath this heel of mine : 

Since hut death 
Deserves the man whose deed, 

Be it vice or want of heed, 

Stops the pumps that give us breath, — 

Stops the pumps that suck the death 
From the poisoned lower levels of the mine ! ” 


RAMON 


91 


No one answered ; for a cry 
From the shaft rose up on high, 

And shuffling, scrambling, tumbling from below, 

Came the miners each, the bolder 
Mounting on the weaker’s shoulder, 

Grappling, clinging to their hold or 
Letting go, 

As the weaker gasped and fell 
From the ladder to the well, — 

To the poisoned pit of hell 
Down below ! 

“ To the man who sets them free,” 

Cried the foreman, Harry Lee, — 

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine, — 
tl Brings them out and sets them free, 

I will give that man,” said he, 

“ Twice that sum, who with a rope 
Face to face with Death shall cope. 

Let him come who dares to hope ! ” 

(i Hold your peace ! ” some one replied, 

Standing by the foreman’s side ; 
u There has one already gone, whoe’er he be ! ” 

Then they held their breath with awe, 

Pulling on the rope, and saw 
Fainting figures reappear, 

On the black rope swinging clear, 

Fastened by some skillful hand from below ; 

Till a score the level gained, 

And but one alone remained, — 

He the hero and the last, 

He whose skillful hand made fast 
The long line that brought them back to hope and cheer ! 


92 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


Haggard, gasping, down dropped he 
At the feet of Harry Lee, — 

Harry Lee, the English foreman of the mine. 
" I have come,” he gasped, “ to claim 
Both rewards. Senor, my name 
Is Bamon ! 

I 'm the drunken engineer, 

I ’m the coward, Senor 99 — Here 
He fell over, by that sign, 

Dead as stone 1 


DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 


(REFECTORY, MISSION SAN GABRIEL, 1869) 

Good ! — said the Padre, — believe me still, 

“ Don Giovanni,” or what you will, 

The type ’s eternal ! We knew him here 

As Don Diego del Sud. I fear 

The story ’s no new one ! Will you hear ? 

One of those spirits you can’t tell why 
God has permitted. Therein I 
Have the advantage, for I hold 
That Volves are sent to the purest fold, 

And we ’d save the wolf if we’d get the lamb. 
You ’re no believer ? Good ! I am. 

Well, for some purpose, I grant you dim, 

The Don loved women, and they loved him. 
Each thought herself his last love ! Worst, 
Many believed that they were his first! 

And, such are these creatures since the Fall, 

The very doubt had a charm for all ! 

You laugh ! You are young, but I — indeed 
I have no patience ... To proceed : — 

You saw, as you passed through the upper town, 
The Eucinal where the road goes down 
To San Felipe ! There one morn 
They found Diego, — his mantle torn, 


94 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


And as many holes through his doublet’s band 
As there were wronged husbands — you understand ! 

“ Dying,” so said the gossips. “ Dead ” 

Was what the friars who found him said. 

May be. Quien sabe ? Who else should know ? 

It was a hundred years ago. 

There was a funeral. Small indeed — 

Private. What would you ? To proceed : — 

Scarcely the year had flown. One night 
The Commandante awoke in fright, 

Hearing below his casement’s bat 

The well-known twang of the Don’s guitar ; 

And rushed to the window, just to see 
His wife a-swoon on the balcony. 

One week later, Don Juan Ramirez 
Found his own daughter, the Dona Inez, 

Pale as a ghost, leaning out to hear 
The song of that phantom cavalier. 

Even Alcalde Pedro Bias 

Saw, it was said, through his niece’s glass, 

The shade of Diego twice repass. 

What these gentlemen each confessed 
Heaven and the Church only knows. At best 
The case was a bad one. How to deal 
With Sin as a Ghost, they could n’t but feel 
Was an awful thing. Till a certain Fray 
Humbly offered to show the way. 

And the way was this. Did I say before 
That the Fray was a stranger ? Ho, Senor ? 

Strange ! very strange ! I should have said 


DON DIEGO OF THE SOUTH 


95 


That the very week that the Don lay dead 
He came among ns. Bread he broke 
Silent, nor ever to one he spoke. 

So he had vowed it ! Below his brows 
His face was hidden. There are such vows ! 

Strange ! are they not ? You do not use 
Snuff ? A bad habit ! 

Well, the views 

Of the Fray were these : that the penance done 

By the caballeros was right ; but one 

Was due from the cause, and that, in brief, 

Was Donna Dolores Gomez, chief, 

And Inez, Sanchicha, Concepcion, 

And Carmen, — well, half the girls in town 
On his tablets the Friar had written down. 

These were to come on a certain day 
And ask at the hands of the pious Fray 
For absolution. That done, small fear 
But the shade of Diego would disappear. 

They came ; each knelt in her turn and place 
To the pious Fray with his hidden face 
And voiceless lips, and each again 
Took hack her soul freed from spot or stain, 

Till the Dona Inez, with eyes downcast 
And a tear on their fringes, knelt her last. 

And then — perhaps that her voice was low 
From fear or from shame — the monks said so — 
But the Fray leaned forward, when, presto ! all 
Were thrilled by a scream, and saw her fall 
Fainting beside the confessional. 


96 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


And so was the ghost of Diego laid 

As the Fray had said. Never more his shade 

Was seen at San Gabriel’s Mission. Eh ! 

The girl interests you ? I dare say ! 

“ Nothing/’ said she, when they brought her to — 
“ Only a faintness ! ” They spoke more true 
Who said ’t was a stubborn soul. But then — 
Women are women, and men are men ! 

So, to return. As I said before, 

Having got the wolf, by the same high law 
We saved the lamb in the wolf ’s own jaw, 

And that ’s my moral. The tale, I fear, 

But poorly told. Yet it strikes me here 
Is stuff for a moral. What ’s your view ? 

You smile, Don Pancho. Ah ! that ’s like you ! 


AT THE HACIENDA 


Know I not whom thou mayst be 
Carved upon this olive-tree, — 

“ Manuela of La Torre,” — 

Eor around on broken walls 
Summer sun and spring rain falls, 
And in vain the low wind calls 
“ Manuela of La Torre.” 

Of that song no words remain 
But the musical refrain, — 

“ Manuela of La Torre.” 

Yet at night, when winds are still, 
Tinkles on the distant hill 
A guitar, and words that thrill 
Tell to me the old, old story, — 
Old when first thy charms were sung, 
Old when these old walls were young, 
“ Manuela of La Torre.” 


FRIAR PEDRO’S RIDE 


It was the morning season of the year ; 

It was the morning era of the land ; 

The watercourses rang full loud and clear ; 

Portala’s cross stood where Portala’s hand 
Had planted it when Faith was taught by Fear, 

When monks and missions held the sole command 
Of all that shore beside the peaceful sea, 

Where spring-tides heat their long-drawn reveille. 

Out of the mission of San Luis Rey, 

All in that brisk, tumultuous spring weather, 

Rode Friar Pedro, in a pious way, 

With six dragoons in cuirasses of leather, 

Each armed alike for either prayer or fray ; 

Handcuffs and missals they had slung together, 

And as an aid the gospel truth to scatter 
Each swung a lasso — alias a “ riata.” 

In sooth, that year the harvest had been slack, 

The crop of converts scarce worth computation ; 
Some souls were lost, whose owners had turned back 
To save their bodies frequent flagellation ; 

And some preferred the songs of birds, alack ! 

To Latin matins and their souls’ salvation, 

And thought their own wild whoopings were less dreary 
Than Father Pedro’s droning miserere. 

To bring them back to matins and to prime, 

To pious works and secular submission, 


FRIAR PEDRO’S RIDE 


To prove to them that liberty was crime, — 

This was, in fact, the Padre’s present mission ; 

To get new souls perchance at the same time, 

And bring them to a “ sense of their condition,” 
That easy phrase, which, in the past and present, 
Means making that condition most unpleasant. 

He saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 

He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 

He saw the gopher working in his burrow ; 

He saw the squirrel scampering at his will : — 
He saw all this, and felt no doubt a thorough 
And deep conviction of God’s goodness ; still 
He failed to see that in His glory He 
Yet left the humblest of His creatures free. 

He saw the flapping crow, whose frequent note 
Voiced the monotony of land and sky, 

Mocking with graceless wing and rusty coat 
His priestly presence as he trotted by. 

He would have cursed the bird by bell and rote, 
But other game just then was in his eye, — 

A savage camp, whose occupants preferred 
Their heathen darkness to the living Word. 

He rang his bell, and at the martial sound 

Twelve silver spurs their jingling rowels clashed 
Six horses sprang across the level ground 
As six dragoons in open order dashed ; 

Above their heads the lassos circled round, 

In every eye a pious fervor flashed ; 

They charged the camp, and in one moment more 
They lassoed six and reconverted four. 

The Friar saw the conflict from a knoll, 

And sang Laus Deo and cheered on his men : 


100 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


" Well thrown, Bautista, — that ’s another soul ; 

After him, Gomez, — try it once again ; 

This way, Felipe, — there the heathen stole ; 

Bones of St. Francis ! — surely that makes ten; 
Te Denm laudamus — hut they ’re very wild ; 
Non nobis Nominus — all right, my child ! ” 

When at that moment — as the story goes — 

A certain squaw, who had her foes eluded, 

Ban past the Friar, just before his nose. 

He stared a moment, and in silence brooded ; 
Then in his breast a pious frenzy rose 

And every other prudent thought excluded ; 

He caught a lasso, and dashed in a canter 
After that Occidental Atalanta. 

High o’er his head he swirled the dreadful noose ; 

But, as the practice was quite unfamiliar, 

His first cast tore Felipe’s captive loose, 

And almost choked Tiburcio Camilla, 

And might have interfered with that brave youth’s 
Ability to gorge the tough tortilla ; 

But all things come by practice, and at last 
His flying slip-knot caught the maiden fast. 

Then rose above the plain a mingled yell 
Of rage and triumph, — a demoniac whoop : 

The Padre heard it like a passing knell, 

And would have loosened his unchristian loop ; 
But the tough raw-hide held the captive well, 

And held, alas ! too well the captor-dupe ; 

For with one hound the savage fled amain, 
Dragging horse, Friar, down the lonely plain. 

Down the arroyo , out across the mead, 

By heath and hollow, sped the flying maid, 


FRIAR PEDRO’S RIDE 101 

Dragging behind her still the panting steed 
And helpless Friar, who in vain essayed 
To cut the lasso or to check his speed. 

He felt himself beyond all human aid, 

And trusted to the saints, — and, for that matter, 

To some weak spot in Felipe’s riata. 

Alas ! the lasso had been duly blessed, 

And, like baptism, held the flying wretch, — 

A doctrine that the priest had oft expressed, 

Which, like the lasso, might be made to stretch, 

But would not break ; so neither could divest 
Themselves of it, but, like some awful fetch , 

The holy Friar had to recognize 
The image of his fate in heathen guise. 

He^saw the glebe land guiltless of a furrow ; 

He saw the wild oats wrestle on the hill ; 

He saw the gopher standing in his burrow ; 

He saw the squirrel scampering at his will : — 

He saw all this, and felt no doubt how thorough 
The contrast was to his condition ; still 
The squaw kept onward to the sea, till night 
And the cold sea-fog hid them both from sight. 

The morning came above the serried coast, 

Lighting the snow-peaks with its beacon-fires, 

Driving before it all the fleet-winged host 
Of chattering birds above the Mission spires, 

Filling the land with light and joy, but most 
The savage woods with all their leafy lyres ; 

In pearly tints and opal flame and fire 
The morning came, but not the holy Friar. 

Weeks passed away. In vain the Fathers sought 
Some trace or token that might tell his story ; 


102 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


Some thought him dead, or, like Elijah, caught 
Up to the heavens in a blaze of glory. 

In this surmise some miracles were wrought 
On his account, and souls in purgatory 
Were thought to profit from his intercession ; 

In brief, his absence made a “ deep impression.” 

A twelvemonth passed ; the welcome Spring once more 
Made green the hills beside the white-faced Mission, 
Spread her bright dais by the western shore, 

And sat enthroned, a most resplendent vision. 

The heathen converts thronged the chapel door 
At morning mass, when, says the old tradition, 

A frightful whoop throughout the church resounded, 
And to their feet the congregation bounded. 

A tramp of hoofs upon the beaten course, 

Then came a sight that made the bravest quail : 

A phantom Eriar on a spectre horse, 

Dragged by a creature decked with horns and tail. 
By the lone Mission, with the whirlwind’s force, 

They madly swept, and left a sulphurous trail : 

And that was all, — enough to tell the story, 

And leave unblessed those souls in purgatory. 

And ever after, on that fatal day 

That Friar Pedro rode abroad lassoing, 

A ghostly couple came and went away 

With savage whoop and heathenish hallooing, 

Which brought discredit on San Luis Key, 

And proved the Mission’s ruin and undoing ; 

For ere ten years had passed, the squaw and Friar 
Performed to empty walls and fallen spire. 

The Mission is no more ; upon its walls 
The golden lizards slip, or breathless pause, 


FRIAR PEDRO’S RIDE 

Still as the sunshine brokenly that falls 

Through crannied roof and spider-webs of gauze 
No more the bell its solemn warning calls, — 

A holier silence thrills and overawes ; 

And the sharp lights and shadows of to-day 
Outline the Mission of San Luis Rey. 


103 


IN THE MISSION GAEDEN 


( 1865 ) 

FATHER FELIPE 

I speak not the English well, hut Pachita, 

She speak for me ; is it not so, my Pancha ? 

Eh, little rogue ? Come, salute me the stranger 

Americano. 

Sir, in my country we say, “ Where the heart is, 

There live the speech.” Ah ! you not understand ? So ! 
Pardon an old man, — what you call “ old fogy,” — 

Padre Eelipe ! 

Old, Senor, old ! just so old as the Mission. 

You see that pear-tree ? How old you think, Senor ? 
Fifteen year ? Twenty ? Ah, Senor, just fifty 

Gone since I plant him ! 

You like the wine ? It is some at the Mission, 

Made from the grape of the year eighteen hundred ; 

All the same time when the earthquake he come to 

San Juan Bautista. 

But Pancha is twelve, and she is the rose-tree ; 

And I am the olive, and this is the garden : 

And “ Pancha ” we say, hut her name is “ Francisca,” 

Same like her mother. 


IN THE MISSION GARDEN 


105 


Eh, you knew her ? No ? Ah ! it is a story ; 

But I speak not, like Pachita, the English : 

So ! if I try, you will sit here beside me, 

And shall not laugh, eh ? 

When the American come to the Mission, 

Many arrive at the house of Erancisca : 

One, — he was fine man, — he buy the cattle 

Of Jose Castro. 

• 

So ! he came much, and Francisca, she saw him : 

And it was love, — and a very dry season ; 

And the pears bake on the tree, — and the rain come, 

But not Francisca. 

Not for one year ; and one night I have walk much 
Under the olive-tree, when comes Francisca, — 

Comes to me here, with her child, this Francisca, — 

Under the olive-tree. 

Sir, it was sad ; . . . but I speak not the English ; 

So ! . . . she stay here, and she wait for her husband : 
He come no more, and she sleep on the hillside ; 

There stands Pachita. 

Ah ! there ’ s the Angelus. Will you not enter ? 

Or shall you walk in the garden with Pancha ? 

Go, little rogue — st ! attend to the stranger ! 

Adios, Senor. 

pachita (briskly). 

So, he ’s been telling that yarn about mother ! 

Bless you ! he tells it to every stranger : 

Folks about yer say the old man J s my father ; 

What ? s your opinion ? 


THE LOST GALLEON 1 


In sixteen hundred and forty-one, 

The regular yearly galleon, 

Laden with odorous gums and spice, 

India cottons and India rice, 

And the richest silks of far Cathay, 

Was due at Acapulco Bay. 

Due she was, and overdue, — 

Galleon, merchandise, and crew, 

Creeping along through rain and shine, 
Through the tropics, under the line. 

The trains were waiting outside the walls, 
The wives of sailors thronged the town, 
The traders sat by their empty stalls, 

And the Viceroy himself came down ; 

The bells in the tower were all a-trip, 

Te Deums were on each Father’s lip, 

The limes were ripening in the sun 
For the sick of the coming galleon. 

All in vain. Weeks passed away, 

And yet no galleon saw the bay. 

India goods advanced in price ; 

The Governor missed his favorite spice ; 
The Senoritas mourned for sandal 
And the famous cottons of Coromandel ; 
And some for an absent lover lost, 

And one for a husband, — Donna Julia, 

1 See note, p. 315 . 


THE LOST GALLEON 


107 


Wife of the captain tempest-tossed, 

In circumstances so peculiar ; 

Even the Fathers, unawares, 

Grumbled a little at their prayers ; 

And all along the coast that year 
Votive candles were scarce and dear. 

Never a tear bedims the eye 
That time and patience will not dry ; 

Never a lip is curved with pain 
That can’t be kissed into smiles again ; 

And these same truths, as far as I know, 
Obtained on the coast of Mexico 
More than two hundred years ago, 

In sixteen hundred and fifty-one, — 

Ten years after the deed was done, — 

And folks had forgotten the galleon : 

The divers plunged in the gulf for pearls, 
White as the teeth of the Indian girls ; 

The traders sat by their full bazaars ; 

The mules with many a weary load, 

And oxen dragging their creaking cars, 

Came and went on the mountain road. 

Where was the galleon all this while ? 
Wrecked on some lonely coral isle, 

Burnt by the roving sea-marauders, 

Or sailing north under secret orders ? 

Had she found the Anian passage famed, 

By lying Maldonado claimed, 

And sailed through the sixty-fifth degree 
Direct to the North Atlantic Sea ? 

Or had she found the “ River of Kings,” 

Of which De Fonte told such strange things, 
In sixteen forty ? Never a sign, 


108 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 


East or west or under the line, 

They saw of the missing galleon ; 

Never a sail or plank or chip 

They found of the long-lost treasure-ship, 

Or enough to build a tale upon. 

But when she was lost, and where and how, 

Are the facts we ’re coming to just now. 

Take, if you please, the chart of that day, 
Published at Madrid, — por el Hey ; 

Look for a spot in the old South Sea, 

The hundred and eightieth degree 
Longitude west of Madrid : there, 

Under the equatorial glare, 

Just where the east and west are one, 

You ’ll find the missing galleon, — 

You ’ll find the San Gregorio, yet 
Biding the seas, with sails all set, 

Fresh as upon the very day 
She sailed from Acapulco Bay. 

How did she get there ? What strange spell 
Kept her two hundred years so well, 

Free from decay and mortal taint ? 

What but the prayers of a patron saint ! 

A hundred leagues from Manilla town, 

The San Gregorio’s helm came down ; 

Bound she went on her heel, and not 

A cable’s length from a galliot 

That rocked on the waters just abreast 

Of the galleon’s course, which was west-sou’- west. 

Then said the galleon’s commandante, 

General Pedro Sohriente 


THE LOST GALLEON 


109 


(That was his rank on land and main, 

A regular custom of Old Spain), 

“ My pilot is dead of scurvy : may 
I ask the longitude, time, and day ? ” 

The first two given and compared ; 

The third — the commandante stared ! 

“ The first of June ? I make it second.” 

Said the stranger, “ Then you ’ve wrongly reckoned ; 
I make it first : as you came this way, 

You should have lost, d’ ye see, a day ; 

Lost a day, as plainly see, 

On the hundred and eightieth degree.” 

“ Lost a day ? ” u Yes ; if not rude, 

When did you make east longitude ? ” 

“ On the ninth of May, — our patron’s day.” 

“ On the ninth ? — you had no ninth of May ! 

Eighth and tenth was there ; hut stay ” — 

Too late ; for the galleon bore away. 

Lost was the day they should have kept, 

Lost unheeded and lost unwept ; 

Lost in a way that made search vain, 

Lost in a trackless and boundless main ; 

Lost like the day of Job’s awful curse, 

In his third chapter, third and fourth verse; 

Wrecked was their patron’s only day, — 

What would the holy Fathers say ? 

Said the Fray Antonio Estavan, 

The galleon’s chaplain, — a learned man, — 
u Nothing is lost that you can regain ; 

And the way to look for a thing is plain, 

To go where you lost it, back again. 

Back with your galleon till you see 
The hundred and eightieth degree. 


SPANISH IDYLS AND LEGENDS 

Wait till the rolling year goes round, 

And there will the missing day he found ; 

For you ’ll find, if computation ’s true, 

That sailing East will give to you 
Not only one ninth of M^iy, but two, — 

One for the good saint’s present cheer, 

And one for the day we lost last year.” 

Back to the spot sailed the galleon ; 

Where, for a twelvemonth, off and on 
The hundred and eightieth degree 
She rose and fell on a tropic sea. 

But lo ! when it came to the ninth of May, 

All of a sudden becalmed she lay 
One degree from that fatal spot, 

Without the power to move a knot ; 

And of course the moment she lost her way, 
Gone was her chance to save that day. 

To cut a lengthening story short, 

She never saved it. Made the sport 
Of evil spirits and baffling wind, 

She was always before or just behind, 

One day too soon or one day too late, 

And the sun, meanwhile, would never wait. 

She had two Eighths, as she idly lay, 

Two Tenths, but never a Ninth of May ; 

And there she rides through two hundred years 
Of dreary penance and anxious fears ; 

Yet, through the grace of the saint she served, 
Captain and crew are still preserved. 

By a computation that still holds good, 

Made by the Holy Brotherhood, 

The San Gregorio will cross that line 


THE LOST GALLEON 


111 


In nineteen hundred and thirty -nine : 
Just three hundred years to a day 
From the time she lost the ninth of May. 
And the folk in Acapulco town, 

Over the waters looking down, 

Will see in the glow of the setting sun 
The sails of the missing galleon, 

And the royal standard of Philip Rey, 
The gleaming mast and glistening spar, 

As she nears the surf of the outer bar. 

A Te Deum sung on her crowded deck, 
An odor of spice along the shore, 

A crash, a cry from a shattered wreck, — 
And the yearly galleon sails no more 
In or out of the olden bay ; 

For the blessed patron has found his day. 


Such is the legend. Hear this truth : 

Over the trackless past, somewhere, 
Lie the lost days of our tropic youth, 
Only regained by faith and prayer, 
Only recalled by prayer and plaint : 
Each lost day has its patron saint ! 


III. IN DIALECT 


“JIM ” 

Say there ! P’r’aps 
Some on you chaps 

Might know Jim Wild ? 
Well, — no offense : 

Thar ain’t no sense 
In gittin’ riled ! 

Jim was my chum 
Up on the Bar : 

That ’s why I come 
Down from up yar, 
Lookin’ for Jim. 

Thank ye, sir ! You 
Ain’t of that crew, — 

Blest if you are ! 

Money ? Not much : 

That ain’t my kind ; 

I ain’t no such. 

Bum ? P don’t mind, 
Seein’ it’s you. 

Well, this yer Jim, — 

Did you know him ? 

Jes’ ’bout your size ; 

Same kind of eyes ; — 


JIM 


113 


« 


Well, that is strange : 
Why, it ’s two year 
Since he came here, 
Sick, for a change. 

Well, here ’s to us : 

Eh? 

The h you say ! 

Dead ? 

That little cuss ? 

What makes you star’, 

You over thar ? 

Can’t a man drop 
’s glass in yer shop 
But you must r’ar ? 

It would n’t take 

D d much to break 

You and your bar. 

Dead ! 

Poor — little — Jim ! 
Why, thar was me, 

Jones, and Bob Lee, 

Harry and Ben, — 
No-account men : 

Then to take him ! 

Well, thar — Good-by — 
No more, sir — I — 

Eh? 

What ’s that you say ? 
Why, dern it ! — sho ! — 
No ? Yes ! By Joe ! 
Sold ! 


114 


IN DIALECT 


Sold ! Why, you limb, 
You ornery, 

Derned old 
Long-legged Jim. 


CHIQUITA 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n’t her match 
in the county ; 

Is thar, old gal, — Chiquita, my darling, my beauty ? 

Feel of that neck, sir, — thar ’s velvet ! Whoa ! steady, — 
ah, will you, you vixen ! 

Whoa ! I say. Jack, trot her out ; let the gentleman look 
at her paces. 

Morgan ! — she ain’t nothing else, and I ’ve got the papers 
to prove it. 

Sired by Chippewa Chief, and twelve hundred dollars won’t 
buy her. 

Briggs of Tuolumne owned her. Did you know Briggs of 
Tuolumne ? 

Busted hisself in White Pine, and blew out his brains down 
in ’Frisco ? 

Hed n’t no savey, hed Briggs. Thar, Jack ! that ’ll do, — 
quit that foolin’ ! 

Nothin’ to what she kin do, when she ’s got her work cut 
out before her. 

Hosses is hosses, you know, and likewise, too, jockeys is 
jockeys : 

And ’t ain’t ev’ry man as can ride as knows what a hoss has 
got in him. 

Know the old ford on the Fork, that nearly got Flanigan’s 
leaders ? 

Nasty in daylight, you bet, and a mighty rough ford in low 
water ! 


116 


IN DIALECT 


Well, it ain’t six weeks ago that me and the Jedge and his 
nevey 

Struck for that ford in the night, in the rain, and the water 
all round us ; 

Up to' our flanks in the gulch, and Rattlesnake Creek just 
a-bilin’, 

Not a plank left in the dam, and nary a bridge on the 
river. 

I had the gray, and the Jedge had his roan, and his nevey, 
Chiquita ; 

And after us trundled the rocks jest loosed from the top of 
the canon. 

Lickity, lickity, switch, we came to the ford, and Chi- 
quita 

Buckled right down to her work, and, afore I could yell to 
her rider, 

Took water jest at the ford, and there was the Jedge and 
me standing, 

And twelve hundred dollars of hoss-flesh afloat, and 
a-driftin’ to thunder ! 

Would ye b’lieve it ? That night, that hoss, that ’ar filly, 
Chiquita, 

Walked herself into her stall, and stood there, all quiet and 
dripping : 

Clean as a beaver or rat, with nary a buckle of harness, 

Just as she swam the Fork, — that hoss, that ’ar filly, 
Chiquita. 

That ’s what I call a hoss ! and — What did you say ? — 
Oh, the nevey ? 

Drownded, I reckon, — leastways, he never kem back to 
deny it. 


CHIQUITA 117 

Ye see the derned fool had no seat, ye could n’t have made 
him a rider ; 

And then, ye know, boys will be boys, and hosses — well, 
hosses is hosses ! 


DOW’S FLAT 


( 1856 ) 

Dow’s Flat. That ’s its name ; 

And I reckon that you 
Are a stranger ? The same ? 

Well, I thought it was true, — 

For thar is n’t a man on the river as can’t spot the place at 
first view. 

It was called after Dow, — 

Which the same was an ass, — 

And as to the how 

Thet the thing kem to pass, — 

Jest tie up your hoss to that buckeye, and sit ye down here 
in the grass. 

You see this ’yer Dow 

Hed the worst kind of luck ; 

He slipped up somehow 

On each thing thet he struck. 

Why, ef he ’d a straddled thet fence-rail, the derned thing 
’d get up and buck. 

He mined on the bar 

Till he could n’t pay rates ; 

He was smashed by a car 

When he tunneled with Bates ; 

And right on the top of his trouble kem his wife and five 
kids from the States. 


DOW’S FLAT 


119 


It was rough, — mighty rough ; 

But the hoys they stood by, 

And they brought him the stuff 
For a house, on the sly ; 

And the old woman, — well, she did washing, and took on 
when no one was nigh. 

But this ’yer luck of Dow’s 
Was so powerful mean 

That the spring near his house 
Dried right up on the green ; 

And he sunk forty feet down for water, but nary a drop to 
be seen. 

Then the bar petered out, 

And the boys would n’t stay ; 

And the chills got about, 

And his wife fell away ; 

But Dow in his well kept a peggin’ in his usual ridikilous 
way. 

One day, — it was J une, — 

And a year ago, jest — 

This Dow kem at noon 
To his work like the rest, 

With a shovel and pick on his shoulder, and derringer hid 
in his breast. 

He goes to the well, 

And he stands on the brink, 

And stops for a spell 
Jest to listen and think : 

For the sun in his eyes (jest like this, sir !), you see, kinder 
made the cuss blink. 


120 


IN DIALECT 


His two ragged gals 

In the gulch were at play, 

And a gownd that was Sal’s 
Kinder flapped on a bay : 

Not much for a man to he leavin’, but his all, — as I ’ve 
heer’d the folks say. 

And — That ’s a peart hoss 

Thet you ’ve got, — ain’t it now ? 

What might he her cost ? 

Eh ? Oh ! — Well, then, Dow — 

Let ’s see, — well, that forty-foot grave was n’t his, sir, that 
day, anyhow. 

For a blow of his pick 
Sorter caved in the side, 

And he looked and turned sick, 

Then he trembled and cried. 

For you see the dern cuss had struck — “ Water ? ” — Beg 
your parding, young man, — there you 
lied ! 

It was gold , — in the quartz, 

And it ran all alike ; 

And I reckon five oughts 

Was the worth of that strike ; 

And that house with the coopilow ’s his’n, — which the 
same is n’t bad for a Pike. 

Thet’s why it ’s Dow’s Flat j 
And the thing of it is 

That he kinder got that 

Through sheer contrairiness : 

For ’twas water the derned cuss was seekin’, and his luck 
made him certain to miss. 



“It was gold ! 55 


Page 120. 



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■ 


1 I 











; 

' w 




DOW’S FLAT 


121 


Thet ’ s so ! Thar ’s your way, 

To the left of yon tree ; 

But — a — look h’yur, say ? 

Won’t you come up to tea ? 

No? Well, then the next time you’re passin’ ; and ask 
after Dow, — and thet ’s me. 


IN THE TUNNEL 


Did n’t know Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia, — 

Long as he ’s been ’yar ? 
Look ’ee here, stranger, 
Whar hev you been ? 

Here in this tunnel 
He was my pardner, 

That same Tom Flynn, — 
Working together, 

In wind and weather, 

Day out and in. 

Did n’t know Flynn ! 

Well, that is queer ; 

Why, it ’s a sin 
To think of Tom Flynn, — 
Tom with his cheer, 

Tom without fear, — 
Stranger, look ’yar ! 

Thar in the drift, 

Back to the wall, 

He held the timbers 
Ready to fall ; 

Then in the darkness 
I heard him call : 

" Run for your life, Jake ! 
Run for your wife’s sake ! 
Don’t wait for me.” 


IN THE TUNNEL 


123 


And that was all 
Heard in the din, 

Heard of Tom Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That ’s all about 
Flynn of Virginia. 

That lets me out. 

Here in the damp, — 
Out of the sun, — 

That ’ar derned lamp 
Makes my eyes run. 

Well, there, — I ’m done ! 

But, sir, when you’ll 
Hear the next fool 
Asking of Flynn, — 
Flynn of Virginia, — 

Just you chip in, 

Say you knew Flynn ; 
Say that you ’ve been ’yar. 


“ CICELY ” 


(alkali station) 

Cicely says you ’re a poet ; maybe, — I ain’t much on 
rhyme : 

I reckon you’d give me a hundred, and beat me every 
time. 

Poetry ! — that ’s the way some chaps puts up an idee, 

But I takes mine “ straight without sugar,” and that’s 
what ’s the matter with me. 

Poetry ! — just look round you, — alkali, rock, and sage ; 

Sage-brush, rock, and alkali ; ain’t it a pretty page ! 

Sun in the east at mornin’, sun in the west at night, 

And the shadow of this ’yer station the on’y thing moves 
in sight. 

Poetry ! — Well now — Polly ! Polly, run to your mam ; 

Run right away, my pooty ! By-by ! Ain’t she a lamb ? 

Poetry ! — that reminds me o’ suthin’ right in that suit : 

Jest shet that door thar, will yer? — for Cicely’s ears is 
cute. 

Ye noticed Polly, — the baby ? A month afore she was 
born, 

Cicely — my old woman — was moody-like and forlorn ; 

Out of her head and crazy, and talked of flowers and 
trees; 

Family man yourself, sir ? Well, you know what a woman 
be’s. 


“CICELY” 125 

Narvous she was, and restless, — said that she “ could n’t 
stay.” 

Stay ! — and the nearest woman seventeen miles away. 

But I fixed it up with the doctor, and he said he would be 
on hand, 

And I kinder stuck by the shanty, and fenced in that bit o’ 
land. 

One night, — the tenth of October, — I woke with a chill 
and a fright, 

For the door it was standing open, and Cicely warn’t in 
sight, 

But a note was pinned on the blanket, which it said . that 
she <e could n’t stay,” 

But had gone to visit her neighbor, — seventeen miles 
away ! 

When and how she stampeded, I did n’t wait for to see, 

For out in the road, next minit, I started as wild as she ; 

Running first this way and that way, like a hound that is 
off the scent, 

For there warn’t no track in the darkness to tell me the 
way she went. 

I ’ve had some mighty mean moments afore I kem to this 
spot, — 

Lost on the Plains in ’50, drownded almost and shot ; 

But out on this alkali desert, a-hunting a crazy wife, 

Was ra’ly as on-satis-factory as anything in my life. 

“ Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! ” I called, and I held my breath, 

And “ Cicely ! ” came from the canyon, — and all was as 
still as death. 

And “ Cicely ! Cicely ! Cicely ! ” came from the rocks below, 

And jest but a whisper of “ Cicely ! ” down from them 
peaks of snow. 


126 


IN DIALECT 


I ain’t what you call religious, — but I jest looked up to 
the sky, 

And — this ’yer ’s to what I ’m coming, and maybe ye think 
I lie: 

But up away to the east’ard, yaller and big and far, 

I saw of a suddent rising the singlerist kind of star. 

Big and yaller and dancing, it seemed to beckon to me : 

Yaller and big and dancing, such as you never see : 

Big and yaller and dancing, — I never saw such a star, 

And I thought of them sharps in the Bible, and I went 
for it then and thar. 

Over the brush and bowlders I stumbled and pushed ahead : 

Keeping the star afore me, I went wherever it led. 

It might hev been for an hour, when suddent and peart and 
nigh, 

Out of the y earth afore me thar riz up a baby’s cry. 

Listen ! thar ’s the same music ; but her lungs they are 
stronger now 

Than the day I packed her and her mother, — I’m derned 
if I jest know how. 

But the doctor kem the next minit, and the joke o’ the 
whole thing is 

That Cis never knew what happened from that very night 
to this! 

But Cicely says you ’re a poet, and maybe you might, some 
day, 

Jest sling her a rhyme ’bout a baby that was born in a 
curious way, 

And see what she says ; and, old fellow, when you speak of 
the star, don’t tell 

As how ’t was the doctor’s lantern, — for maybe ’t won’t 
sound so well. 


PENELOPE 


(simpson’s BAR, 1858) 

So you ’ve kem ’yer agen, 

And one answer won’t do ? 

Well, of all the derned men 
That I ’ve struck, it is you.< 

O Sal ! ’yer ’s that derned fool from Simpson’s, cavortin’ 
round ’yer in the dew. 

Kem in, ef you will. 

Thar, — quit ! Take a cheer. 

Not that ; you can’t fill 

Them theer cushings this year, — 

For that cheer was my old man’s, Joe Simpson, and they 
don’t make such men about ’yer. 

He was tall, was my Jack, 

And as strong as a tree. 

Thar ’s his gun on the rack, — 

Jest you heft it, and see. 

And you come a courtin’ his widder ! Lord l where can 
that critter, Sal, be ! 

You ’d fill my Jack’s place ? 

And a man of your size, — 

With no baird to his face, 

Nor a snap to his eyes, 

And nary — Sho ! thar ! I was foolin’, — I was, Joe, for 
sartain, — don’t rise. 


128 


IN DIALECT 


Sit down. Law ! why, sho ! 

Pm as weak as a gal. 

Sal ! Don’t you go, Joe, 

Or I ’ll faint, — sure, I shall. 

Sit down, — anywheer , where you like, Joe, — in that 
cheer, if you choose, — Lord ! where ’s 
Sal? 


PLAIN LANGUAGE FEOM TRUTHFUL JAMES 


(table MOUNTAIN, 1870) 

Which I wish to remark, 

And my language is plain, 

That for ways that are dark 
And for tricks that are vain, 

The heathen Chinee is peculiar, 

Which the same I would rise to explain. 

Ah Sin was his name ; 

And I shall not deny, 

In regard to the same, 

What that name might imply ; 

But his smile it was pensive and childlike, 

As I frequent remarked to Bill Nye. 

It was August the third, 

And quite soft was the skies; 

Which it might he inferred 
That Ah Sin was likewise ; 

Yet he played it that day upon William 
And me in a way I despise. 

Which we had a small game, 

And Ah Sin took a hand : 

It was Euchre. The same 
He did not understand ; 

But he smiled as he sat by the table, 

With the smile that was childlike and bland* 


130 


IN DIALECT 


Yet the cards they were stocked 
In a way that I grieve, 

And my feelings were shocked 
At the state of Nye’s sleeve, 

Which was stuffed full of aces and bowers, 
And the same with intent to deceive. 

But the hands that were played 
By that heathen Chinee, 

And the points that he made, 

Were quite frightful to see, — 

Till at last he put down a right bower, 

Which the same Nye had dealt unto me. 

Then I looked up at Nye, 

And he gazed upon me ; 

And he rose with a sigh, 

And said, “ Can this be ? 

We are ruined by Chinese cheap labor,” — 
And he went for that heathen Chinee. 

In the scene that ensued 
I did not take a hand, 

But the floor it was strewed 
Like the leaves on the strand 
With the cards that Ah Sin had been hiding, 
In the game “ he did not understand.” 

In his sleeves, which were long, 

He had twenty-four jacks, — 

Which was coming it strong, 

Yet I state hut the facts ; 

And we found on his nails, which were taper, 
What is frequent in tapers, — that ? s wax. 



He went for that Heathen Chinee.” Page 130, 
















I 


















* 









































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PLAIN LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 131 


Which is why I remark, 

And my language is plain, 

That for ways that are dark 
And for tricks that are vain, 

The heathen Chinee is peculiar, — 

Which the same I am free to maintain. 


THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS 


I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 
J ames ; 

I am not up to small deceit or any sinful games ; 

And I ’ll tell in simple language what I know about the 
row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 

But first I would remark, that it is not a proper plan 
For any scientific gent to whale his fellow-man, 

And, if a member don’t agree with his peculiar whim, 

To lay for that same member for to u put a head ” on him. 

Now nothing could be finer or more beautiful to see 
Than the first six months’ proceedings of that same Society, 
Till Brown of Calaveras brought a lot of fossil bones 
That he found within a tunnel near the tenement of Jones. 

Then Brown he read a paper, and he reconstructed there, 
From those same bones, an animal that was extremely rare ; 
And Jones then asked the Chair for a suspension of the 
rules, 

Till he could prove that those same bones was one of his 
lost mules. 

Then Brown he smiled a bitter smile, and said he was at 
fault, 

It seemed he had been trespassing on Jones’s family vault ; 
He was a most sarcastic man, this quiet Mr. Brown, 

And on several occasions he had cleaned out the town. 


THE SOCIETY UPON THE STANISLAUS 


133 


Now I hold it is not decent for a scientific gent 

To say another is an ass, — at least, to all intent ; 

Nor should the individual who happens to be meant 

Reply by heaving rocks at him, to any great extent. 

Then Abner Dean of Angel’s raised a point of order, when 

A chunk of old red sandstone took him in the abdomen, 

And he smiled a kind of sickly smile, and curled up on the 
floor, 

And the subsequent proceedings interested him no more. 

For, in less time than I write it, every member did engage 

In a warfare with the remnants of a palaeozoic age ; 

And the way they heaved those fossils in their anger was 
a sin, 

Till the skull of an old mammoth caved the head of 
Thompson in. 

And this is all I have to say of these improper games, 

For I live at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful 
James ; 

And I’ve told in simple language what I know about the 
row 

That broke up our Society upon the Stanislow. 


LUKE 


(in THE COLORADO PARK, 1873) 

Wot ’s that you ’re readin ’ ? — a novel ? A novel ! — well, 
darn my skin ! 

You a man grown and bearded and histin’ such stuff ez 
that in — 

Stuff about gals and their sweethearts ! Ko wonder you ’re 
thin ez a knife. 

Look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one in 
my life ! 

That ’s my opinion o’ novels. And ez to their lyin’ round 
here, 

They belong to the Jedge’s daughter — the Jedge who came 
up last year 

On account of his lungs and the mountains and the balsam 
o’ pine and fir ; 

And his daughter — well, she read novels, and that ’s what ’s 
the matter with her. 

Yet she was sweet on the Jedge, and stuck by him day and 
night, 

Alone in the cabin up ’yer — till she grew like a ghost, all 
white. 

She wus only a slip of a thing, ez light and ez up and 
away 

Ez rifle smoke blown through the woods, but she was n’t 
my kind — no way ! 


LUKE 


135 


Speakin’ o’ gals, d’ye mind that house ez you rise the 
hill, 

A mile and a half from White’s, and jist above Mattingly’s 
mill ? 

You do ? Well now thar ’s a gal ! What ! you saw her ? 
Oh, come now, thar ! quit ! 

She was only bedevlin’ you boys, for to me she don’t cotton 
one bit. 

Now she ’s what I call a gal — ez pretty and plump ez a 
quail ; 

Teeth ez white ez a hound’s, and they ’d go through a ten- 
penny nail ; 

Eyes that kin snap like a cap. So she asked to know 
“ whar I was hid ? ” 

She did ! Oh, it ’s jist like her sass, for she ’s peart ez a 
Katydid. 

But what was I talking of ? — Oh ! the Jedge and his 
daughter — she read 

Novels the whole day long, and I reckon she read them 
abed ; 

And sometimes she read them out loud to the Jedge on the 
porch where he sat, 

And ’t was how “ Lord Augustus ” said this, and how 
“ Lady Blanche ” she said that. 

But the sickest of all that I heerd was a yarn thet they 
read ’bout a chap, 

“ Leather-stocking ” by name, and a hunter chock full o’ 
the greenest o’ sap ; 

And they asked me to hear, but I says, “ Miss Mabel, not 
any for me ; 

When I likes I kin sling my own lies, and thet chap and I 
should n’t agree.” 


136 IN DIALECT 

Yet somehow or other that gal alius said that I brought her 
to mind 

Of folks about whom she had read, or suthin belike of thet 
kind, 

And thar warn’t no end o’ the names that she give me thet 
summer up here — 

u Robin Hood,” “ Leather-stocking,” “ Rob Roy,” — Oh, I 
tell you, the critter was queer ! 

And yet, ef she had n’t been spiled, she was harmless enough 
in her way ; 

She could jabber in French to her dad, and they said that 
she knew how to play ; 

And she worked me that shot-pouch up thar, which the 
man does n’t live ez kin use ; 

And slippers — you see ’em down ’yer — ez would cradle an 
Injin’s papoose. 

Yet along o’ them novels, you see, she was wastin’ and 
mopin’ away, 

And then she got shy with her tongue, and at last she had 
nothin’ to say ; 

And whenever I happened around, her face it was hid by a 
book, 

And it warn’t till the day she left that she give me ez much 
ez a look. 

And this was the way it was. It was night when I kem 
up here 

To say to ’em all “ good-by,” for I reckoned to go for 
deer 

At “ sun up ” the day they left. So I shook ’em all round 
by the hand, 

’Cept Mabel, and she was sick, ez they give me to under- 
stand. 


LUKE 137 

But jist ez I passed the house next morning at dawn, some 
one, 

Like a little waver o’ mist got up on the hill with the 
sun ; 

Miss Mabel it was, alone — all wrapped in a mantle o’ 
lace — 

And she stood there straight in the road, with a touch o’ 
the sun in her face. 

And she looked me right in the eye — I ’d seen suthin’ like 
it before 

When I hunted a wounded doe to the edge o’ the Clear 
Lake Shore, 

And I had my knee on its neck, and I jist was raisin’ my 
knife, 

When it give me a look like that, and — well, it got off with 
its life. 

“ We are going to-day,” she said, “ and I thought I would 
say good-by 

To you in your own house, Luke — these woods and the 
bright blue sky ! 

You ’ve always been kind to us, Luke, and papa has found 
you still 

As good as the air he breathes, and wholesome as Laurel 
Tree Hill. 

“ And we ’ll always think of you, Luke, as the thing we 
could not take away, — 

The balsam that dwells in the woods, the rainbow that 
lives in the spray. 

And you ’ll sometimes think of me, Luke, as you know you 
once used to say, 

A rifle smoke blown through the woods, a moment, but 
never to stay.” 


138 IN DIALECT 

And then we shook hands. She turned, but a-suddent she 
tottered and fell, 

And I caught her sharp by the waist, and held her a minit. 
Well, 

It was only a minit, you know, thet ez cold and ez white 
she lay 

Ez a snowflake here on my breast, and then — well, she 
melted away — 

And was gone. . . . And thar are her hooks ; hut I says 
not any for me ; 

G-ood enough may be for some, hut them and I might n’t 
agree. 

They spiled a decent gal ez might hev made some chap a 
wife, 

And look at me ! — clar two hundred — and never read one 
in my life ! 


“THE BABES IN THE WOODS” 


(big pine flat, 1871 ) 

“ Something characteristic,” eh ? 

Humph ! I reckon you mean by that 
Something that happened in our way, 

Here at the crossin’ of Big Pine Flat. 

Times are n’t now as they used to he, 

When gold was flush and the boys were frisky, 

And a man would pull out his battery 

For anything — maybe the price of whiskey. 

Nothing of that sort, eh ? That ’s strange ! 

Why, I thought you might he diverted 
Hearing how Jones of Bed Bock Bange 
Drawed his “ hint to the unconverted,” 

And saying, “ Whar will you have it ? ” shot 
Cherokee Bob at the last debating ! 

What was the question I forgot, 

But Jones didn’t like Bob’s way of stating. 

Nothing of that kind, eh ? You mean 
Something milder ? Let ’s see ! — 0 Joe ! 

Tell to the stranger that little scene 

Out of the “ Babes in the Woods.” You know, 

“ Babes ” was the name that we gave ’em, sir, 

Two lean lads in their teens, and greener 
Than even the belt of spruce and fir 

Where they built their nest, and each day grew leaner. 


140 


IN DIALECT 


No one knew where they came from. None 
Cared to ask if they had a mother. 

Runaway schoolboys, maybe. One 
Tall and dark as a spruce ; the other 
Blue and gold in the eyes and hair, 

Soft and low in his speech, hut rarely 
Talking with us ; and we did n’t care 
To get at their secret at all unfairly. 

For they were so quiet, so sad and shy, 

Content to trust each other solely, 

That somehow we ’d always shut one eye, 

And never seem to observe them wholly 
As they passed to their work. ’T was a worn-out claim, 
And it paid them grub. They could live without it, 
For the boys had a way of leaving game 
In their tent, and forgetting all about it. 

Yet no one asked for their secret. Dumb 
It lay in their big eyes’ heavy hollows. 

It was understood that no one should come 

To their tent unawares, save the bees and swallows. 

So they lived alone. Until one warm night 
I was sitting here at the tent-door, — so, sir ! 

When out of the sunset’s rosy light 
Up rose the Sheriff of Mariposa. 

I knew at once there was something wrong, 

For his hand and his voice shook just a little, 

And there is n’t much you can fetch along 
To make the sinews of Jack Hill brittle. 

“ Go warn the Babes ! ” he whispered, hoarse ; 

u Tell them I ’m coming — to get and scurry ; 

For I ’ve got a story that ’s bad, — and worse, 

I ’ve got a warrant : G — d d — n it, hurry ! ” 


THE BABES IN THE WOODS 


Too late ! they had seen him cross the hill ; 

I ran to their tent and found them lying 
Dead in each other’s arms, and still 

Clasping the drug they had taken flying. 

And there lay their secret cold and hare, 

Their life, their trial — the old, old story ! 

For the sweet blue eyes and the golden hair 
Was a woman’s shame and a woman’s glory. 

61 Who were they ? ” Ask no more, or ask 
The sun that visits their grave so lightly ; 

Ask of the whispering reeds, or task 

The mourning crickets that chirrup nightly. 

All of their life but its love forgot, 

Everything tender and soft and mystic, 

These are our Babes in the Woods, — you ’ve got, 
Well — human nature — that ’s characteristic. 


THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 


It was noon by the sun ; we had finished our game, 

And was passin’ remarks goin’ back to our claim ; 

Jones was countin’ his chips, Smith relievin’ his mind 
Of ideas that a “ straight ” should beat “ three of a kind,” 
When Johnson of Elko came gallopin’ down, 

With a look on his face ’twixt a grin and a frown, 

And he calls, “ Drop your shovels and face right about, 

For them Chinees from Murphy’s are cleanin’ us out — 
With their ching-a-ring-chow 
And their chic-colorow 
They’re bent upon making 
No slouch of a row.” 

Then J ones — my own pardner — looks up with a sigh ; 

" It ’s your wash-bill,” sez he, and I answers, “ You lie ! ” 
But afore he could draw or the others could arm, 

Up tumbles the Bates boys, who heard the alarm. 

And a yell from the hill-top and roar of a gong, 

Mixed up with remarks like “ Hi ! yi ! Chang-a-wong,” 
And bombs, shells, and crackers, that crashed through the 
trees, 

Revealed in their war-togs four hundred Chinees ! 

Four hundred Chinee ; 

We are eight, don’t ye see ! 

That made a square fifty 
To just one o’ we. 

They were dressed in their best, but I grieve that that same 
Was largely made up of our own, to their shame ; 


THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 


143 


And my pardner’s best shirt and his trousers were hung 
On a spear, and above him were tauntingly swung ; 

While that beggar, Chey Lee, like a conjurer sat 
Pullin’ out eggs and chickens from Johnson’s best hat ; 
And Bates’s game rooster was part of their “ loot,” 

And all of Smith’s pigs were skyugled to boot ; 

But the climax was reached and I like to have died 
When my demijohn, empty, came down the hillside, — 
Down the hillside — 

What once held the pride 
Of Robertson County 
Pitched down the hillside ! 

Then we axed for a parley. When out of the din 
To the front comes a-rockin’ that heathen, Ah Sin ! 

“ You owe flowty dollee — me washee you camp, 

You catchee my washee — me catchee no stamp ; 

One dollar hap dozen, me no catchee yet, 

Now that flowty dollee — no hab ? — how can get ? 

Me catchee you piggee — me sellee for cash, 

It catchee me licee — you catchee no ‘ hash ; ’ 

Me belly good Sheliff — me lebbee when can, 

Me allee same halp pin as Melican man ! 

But Melican man 
He washee him pan 
On bottom side hillee 
And catchee — how can ? ” 

“ Are we men ? ” says Joe Johnson, “and list to this jaw, 
Without process of warrant or color of law ? 

Are we men or - — a-chew ! ” — here he gasped in his speech, 
For a stink-pot had fallen just out of his reach. 

“ Shall we stand here as idle, and let Asia pour 
Her barbaric hordes on this civilized shore ? 

Has the White Man no country ? Are we left in the lurch? 
And likewise what ’s gone of the Established Church ? 


144 


IN DIALECT 


One man to four hundred is great odds, I own, 

But this ? yer *s a White Man — I plays it alone ! ” 

And he sprang up the hillside — to stop him none dare 
Till a yell from the top told a “ White Man was there ! 
A White Man was there ! 

We prayed he might spare 
Those misguided heathens 
The few clothes they wear. 

They fled, and he followed, hut no matter where ; 

They fled to escape him, — the “ White Man was there,” 
Till we missed first his voice on the pine-wooded slope, 
And we knew for the heathen henceforth was no hope ; 
And the yells they grew fainter, when Petersen said, 

" It simply was human to bury his dead.” 

And then, with slow tread, 

We crept up, in dread, 

But found nary mortal there, 

Living or dead. 

But there was his trail, and the way that they came, 
And yonder, no doubt, he was bagging his game. 

When Jones drops his pickaxe, and Thompson 
“ Shoo ! ” 

And both of ’em points to a cage of bamboo 
Hanging down from a tree, with a label that swung 
Conspicuous, with letters in some foreign tongue, 

Which, when freely translated, the same did appear 
Was the Chinese for saying, “ A White Man is here ! ” 
And as we drew near, 

In anger and fear, 

Bound hand and foot, Johnson 
Looked down with a leer ! 

In his mouth was an opium pipe — which was why 
He leered at us so with a drunken-like eye ! 


THE LATEST CHINESE OUTRAGE 


145 


They had shaved off his eyebrows, and tacked on a cue, 
They had painted his face of a coppery hue, 

And rigged him all up in a heathenish suit, 

Then softly departed, each man with his “ loot.” 

Yes, every galoot, 

And Ah Sin, to hoot, 

Had left him there hanging 
Like ripening fruit. 

At a mass meeting held up at Murphy’s next day 
There were seventeen speakers and each had his say ; 
There were twelve resolutions that instantly passed, 

And each resolution was worse than the last ; 

There were fourteen petitions, which, granting the same, 
Will determine what Governor Murphy’s shall name ; 
And the man from our district that goes up next year 
Goes up on one issue — that ’s patent and clear : 

“ Can the work of a mean, 

Degraded, unclean 
Believer in Buddha 
Be held as a lien ? ” 


TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR 


(YREKA, 1873) 

Which it is not my style 
To produce needless pain 

By statements that rile 
Or that go ’gin the grain, 

But here’s Captain Jack still a-livin’, and Nye has no 
skelp on his brain ! 

On that Caucasian head 
There is no crown of hair ; 

It has gone, it has fled ! 

And Echo sez “ Where ? ” 

And I asks, “ Is this Nation a White Man’s, and is gener- 
ally things on the square ? ” 

She was known in the camp 
As “ Nye’s other squaw,” 

And folks of that stamp 
Hez no rights in the law, 

But is treacherous, sinful, and slimy, as Nye might hev well 
known before. 

But she said that she knew 
Where the Injins was hid, 

And the statement was true, 

For it seemed that she did, 

Since she led William where he was covered by seventeen 
Modocs, and — slid ! 


TRUTHFUL JAMES TO THE EDITOR 


147 


Then they reached for his hair ; 

But Nye sez, “ By the law 
Of nations, forbear ! 

I surrenders — no more : 

And I looks to be treated, — you hear me ? — as a pris’ner, 
a pris’ner of war ! 99 

But Captain Jack rose 

And he sez, “ It ’s too thin ! 

Such statements as those 
It ’s too late to begin. 

There’s a Modoc indictment agin you, 0 Paleface, and 
you ’re goin’ in ! 

“ You stole Schonchin’s squaw 
In the year sixty -two ; 

It was in sixty-four 

That Long Jack you went through, 

And you burned Nasty Jim’s rancheria, and his wives and 
his papooses too. 

“ This gun in my hand 
Was sold me by you 
’Gainst the law of the land, 

And I grieves it is true ! ” 

And he buried his face in his blanket and wept as he hid it 
from view. 

<( But you ’re tried and condemned, 

And skelping ’s your doom,” 

And he paused and he hemmed — 

But why this resume ? 

He was skelped ’gainst the custom of nations, and cut off 
like a rose in its bloom. 


148 


IN DIALECT 


So I asks without guile, 

And I trusts not in vain, 

If this is the style 

That is going to obtain — 

If here’s Captain Jack still a-livin’, and Nye with no skelp 
on his brain ? 


AN IDYL OF THE EOAD 


(SIERRAS, 1876) 

DRAMATIS PERSONAE 

First Tourist “ Yuba Bill , Driver 

Second Tourist A Stranger 

FIRST TOURIST 

Look how the upland plunges into cover, 

Green where the pines fade sullenly away. 

Wonderful those olive depths ! and wonderful, moreover 

SECOND TOURIST 

The red dust that rises in a suffocating way. 

FIRST TOURIST 

Small is the soul that cannot soar above it, 

Cannot hut cling to its ever-kindred clay : 

Better be yon bird, that seems to breathe and love it — 

SECOND TOURIST 

Doubtless a hawk or some other bird of prey. 

Were we, like him, as sure of a dinner 

That on our stomachs would comfortably stay ; 

Or were the fried ham a shade or two just thinner, 

That must confront us at closing of the day : 

Then might you sing like Theocritus or Virgil, 

Then might we each make a metrical essay ; 

But verse just now — I must protest and urge — ill 
Fits a digestion by travel led astray. 


150 


IN DIALECT 


CHORUS OF PASSENGERS 

Speed, Yuba Bill ! oh, speed us to our dinner ! 

Speed to the sunset that beckons far away. 

SECOND TOURIST 

William of Yuba, 0 Son of Nimshi, hearken ! 

Check thy profanity, but not thy chariot’s play. 

Tell us, 0 William, before the shadows darken, 

Where, and, oh ! how we shall dine ? 0 William, 

YUBA BILL 

It ain’t my fault, nor the Kumpeney’s, I reckon, 

Ye can’t get ez square meal ez any on the Bay, 

Up at yon place, whar the senset ’pears to beckon — 
Ez thet sharp allows in his airy sort o’ way. 

Thar woz a place wor yer hash ye might hev wrestled, 
Kept by a woman ez chipper ez a jay — 

Warm in her breast all the morning sunshine nestled ; 
Bed on her cheeks all the evening’s sunshine lay. 

SECOND TOURIST 

Praise is but breath, 0 chariot compeller ! 

Yet of that hash we would bid you farther say. 

YUBA BILL 

Thar woz a snipe — like you, a fancy tourist — 

Kem to that ranch ez if to make a stay, 

Ban off the gal, and ruined jist the purist 
Critter that lived — 

stranger {quietly) 

You ’re a liar, driver ! 

yuba bill {reaching for his revolver). 

Eh! 

Here take my lines, somebody — 


AN IDYL OF THE ROAD 


151 


CHORUS OF PASSENGERS 

Hush, boys ! listen ! 

Inside there ’s a lady ! Remember ! No affray ! 


YUBA BILL 

Ef that man lives, the fault ain’t mine or his’n. 


STRANGER 

Wait for the sunset that beckons far away, 

Then — as you will ! But, meantime, friends, believe 
me, 

Nowhere on earth lives a purer woman ; nay, 

If my perceptions do surely not deceive me, 

She is the lady we have inside to-day. 

As for the man — you see that blackened pine tree, 

Up which the green vine creeps heavenward away ! 

He was that scarred trunk, and she the vine that sweetly 
Clothed him with life again, and lifted — 


SECOND TOURIST 

How know you this ? 


Yes ; but pray 


STRANGER 

She’s my wife. 

YUBA BILL 

The h — 11 you say ! 


THOMPSON OF ANGELS 


It is the story of Thompson — of Thompson, the hero of 
Angels. 

Frequently drunk was Thompson, hut always polite to the 
stranger ; 

Light and free was the touch of Thompson upon his re- 
volver ; 

Great the mortality incident on that lightness and freedom. 

Yet not happy or gay was Thompson, the hero of Angels ; 

Often spoke to himself in accents of anguish and sorrow, 

“Why do I make the graves of the frivolous youth who 
in folly 

Thoughtlessly pass my revolver, forgetting its lightness and 
freedom ? 

“ Why in my daily walks does the surgeon drop his left 
eyelid, 

The undertaker smile, and the sculptor of gravestone 
marbles 

Lean on his chisel and gaze ? I care not o’er much for 
attention ; 

Simple am I in my ways, save but for this lightness and 
freedom.” 

So spake that pensive man — this Thompson, the hero of 
Angels, 

Bitterly smiled to himself, as he strode through the chap- 
paral musing. 


THOMPSON OF ANGELS 


153 


“ Why, oh, why ? ” echoed the pines in the dark olive depth 
far resounding. 

<e Why, indeed ? ” whispered the sage brush that bent ’neath 
his feet non-elastic. 

Pleasant indeed was that morn that dawned o’er the bar- 
room at Angels, 

Where in their manhood’s prime was gathered the pride of 
the hamlet. 

Six “ took sugar in theirs,” and nine to the barkeeper lightly 

Smiled as they said, “ Well, Jim, you can give us our regu- 
lar fusil.” 

Suddenly as the gray hawk swoops down on the barnyard, 
alighting 

Where, pensively picking their corn, the favorite pullets are 
gathered, 

So in that festive bar-room dropped Thompson, the hero of 
Angels, 

Grasping his weapon dread with his ristine lightness and 
freedom. 

Never a word he spoke ; divesting himself of his garments, 

Danced the war-dance of the playful yet truculent Modoc, 

Uttered a single whoop, and then, in the accents of chal- 
lenge, 

Spake : “ Oh, behold in me a Crested Jay Hawk of the 
mountain.” 

Then rose a pallid man — a man sick with fever and ague ; 

Small was he, and his step was tremulous, weak, and un- 
certain ; 

Slowly a Derringer drew, and covered the person of Thomp- 
son ; 

Said in his feeblest pipe, “ I ’m a Bald-headed Snipe of 
the Valley.” 


154 


IN DIALECT 


As on its native plains the kangaroo, startled by hunters, 

Leaps with successive bounds, and hurries away to the 
thickets, 

So leaped the Crested Hawk, and quietly hopping behind 
him 

Kan, and occasionally shot, that Bald-headed Snipe of the 
Valley. 

Vain at the festive bar still lingered the people of Angels, 

Hearing afar in the woods the petulant pop of the pistol ; 

Never again returned the Crested Jay Hawk of the moun- 
tains, 

Never again was seen the Bald-headed Snipe of the Valley. 

Yet in the hamlet of Angels, when truculent speeches are 
uttered, 

When bloodshed and life alone will atone for some trifling 
misstatement, 

Maidens and men in their prime recall the last hero of 
Angels, 

Think of and vainly regret the Bald-headed Snipe of the 
Valley ! 





“ Across the distant 
Unfathomable reach.” Page 155. 




















































































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THE HAWK’S NEST 


(sierras) 

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding 
We heard the troubled flow 

Of the dark olive depths of pines resounding 
A thousand feet below. 

Aboye the tumult of the canon lifted, 

The gray hawk breathless hung, 

Or on the hill a winged shadow drifted 
Where furze and thorn-bush clung ; 

Or where half-way the mountain side was furrowed 
With many a seam and scar ; 

Or some abandoned tunnel dimly burrowed, — 

A mole-hill seen so far. 

We looked in silence down across the distant 
Unfathomable reach : 

A silence broken by the guide’s consistent 
And realistic speech. 

a Walker of Murphy’s blew a hole through Peters 
For telling him he lied ; 

Then up and dusted out of South Hornitos 
Across the Long Divide. 

“ We ran him out of Strong’s, and up through Eden, 
And ’cross the ford below, 


156 


IN DIALECT 


And up this canon (Peters’ brother leadin’), 

And me and Clark and Joe. 

“ He fou’t us game : somehow I disremember 
Jest how the thing kem round ; 

Some say ’t was wadding, some a scattered ember 
From fires on the ground. 

(t But in one minute all the hill below him 
Was just one sheet of flame ; 

Guardin’ the crest, Sam Clark and I called to him, 

And, — well, the dog was game ! 

" He made no sign : the fires of hell were round him, 
The pit of hell below. 

We sat and waited, but we never found him ; 

And then we turned to go. 

i( And then — you see that rock that ’s grown so bristly 
With chapparal and tan — 

Suthin crep’ out : it might hev been a grizzly 
It might hev been a man ; 

“ Suthin that howled, and gnashed its teeth, and shouted 
In smoke and dust and flame ; 

Suthin that sprang into the depths about it, 

Grizzly or man, — but game ! 

“ That ’s all ! Well, yes, it does look rather risky, 

And kinder makes one queer 
And dizzy looking down. A drop of whiskey 
Ain’t a had thing right here ! ” 


HER LETTER 


I ’m sitting alone by the fire, 

Dressed just as I came from the dance, 

In a robe even you would admire, — 

It cost a cool thousand in France; 

I ’m be-diamonded out of all reason, 

My hair is done up in a cue : 

In short, sir, “ the belle of the season ” 

Is wasting an hour upon you. 

A dozen engagements I ’ve broken ; 

I left in the midst of a set ; 

Likewise a proposal, half spoken, 

That waits — on the stairs — for me yet. 

They say he ’ll be rich, — when he grows up, 
And then he adores me indeed ; 

And you, sir, are turning your nose up, 

Three thousand miles off, as you read. 

<c And how do I like my position ? ” 

“ And what do I think of New York ? ” 

“ And now, in my higher ambition, 

With whom do I waltz, flirt, or talk ? ” 

“ And is n’t it nice to have riches, 

And diamonds and silks, and all that ? v 
“ And are n’t they a change to the ditches 
And tunnels of Poverty Flat ? ” 

Well, yes, — if you saw us out driving 
Each day in the Park, four-in-hand, 


158 


IN DIALECT 


If you saw poor dear mamma contriving 
To look supernaturally grand, — 

If you saw papa’s picture, as taken 
By Brady, and tinted at that, — 

You ’d never suspect he sold bacon 
And flour at Poverty Flat. 

And yet, just this moment, when sitting 
In the glare of the grand chandelier, — 

In the bustle and glitter befitting 
The “ finest soiree of the year,” — 

In the mists of a gaze de Chambery , 

And the hum of the smallest of talk, — 

Somehow, Joe, I thought of the “ Ferry,” 

And the dance that we had on “ The Fork j ” 

Of Harrison’s barn, with its muster 
Of flags festooned over the wall ; 

Of the candles that shed their soft lustre 
And tallow on head-dress and shawl ; 

Of the steps that we took to one fiddle, 

Of the dress of my queer vis-a-vis ; 

And how I once went down the middle 
With the man that shot Sandy McGee ; 

Of the moon that was quietly sleeping 
On the hill, when the time came to go ; 

Of the few baby peaks that were peeping 
From under their bedclothes of snow ; 

Of that ride, — that to me was the rarest ; 

Of — the something you said at the gate. 

Ah ! Joe, then I was n’t an heiress 

To “the best-paying lead in the State.” 

Well, well, it ’s all past ; yet it ’s funny 
To think, as I stood in the glare 


* 


HER LETTER 


159 


Of fashion and beauty and money, 

That I should he thinking, right there, 

Of some one who breasted high water, 

And swam the North Fork, and all that, 

Just to dance with old Folinsbee’s daughter, 

The Lily of Poverty Flat. 

But goodness ! what nonsense I ’m writing ! 

(Mamma says my taste still is low), 

Instead of my triumphs reciting, 

I ’m spooning on Joseph, — heigh-ho ! 

And I ’m to he “ finished ” by travel, — 
Whatever ’s the meaning of that. 

Oh, why did papa strike pay gravel 
In drifting on Poverty Flat ? 

Good-night ! — here *s the end of my paper ; 

Good-night ! — if the longitude please, — 

For maybe, while wasting my tape*, 

Your sun ’s climbing over the trees. 

But know, if you have n’t got riches, 

And are poor, dearest Joe, and all that, 

That my heart ’s somewhere there in the ditches, 
And you ’ve struck it, — on Poverty Flat. 


HIS ANSWER TO “ HER LETTER ” 


(REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES) 

Being asked by an intimate party, — 

Which the same I would term as a friend, — 
Though his health it were vain to call hearty, 

Since the mind to deceit it might lend ; 

Eor his arm it was broken quite recent, 

And there *s something gone wrong with his lung, 
Which is why it is proper and decent 

I should write what he runs off his tongue. 

First, he says, Miss, he ’s read through your letter 
To the end, — and “ the end came too soon ; ” 
That a “ slight illness kept him your debtor,” 
(Which for weeks he was wild as a loon) ; 

That “ his spirits are buoyant as yours is ; ” 

That with you, Miss, he “ challenges Fate,” 
(Which the language that invalid uses 
At times it were vain to relate). 

And he says “ that the mountains are fairer 
For once being held in your thought ; ” 

That each rock “ holds a wealth that is rarer 
Than ever by gold-seeker sought.” 

(Which are words he would put in these pages, 

By a party not given to guile ; 

Though the claim not, at date, paying wages, 

Might produce in the sinful a smile.) 


HIS ANSWER TO “HER LETTER” 161 

He remembers the ball at the Ferry, 

And the ride, and the gate, and the vow, 

And the rose that you gave him, — that very 
Same rose he is “ treasuring now.” 

(Which his blanket he ’s kicked on his trunk, Miss, 

And insists on his legs being free ; 

And his language to me from his bunk, Miss, 

Is frequent and painful and free.) 

He hopes you are wearing no willows, 

But are happy and gay all the while ; 

That he knows — (which this dodging of pillows 
Imparts but small ease to the style, 

And the same you will pardon) — he knows, Miss, 

That, though parted by many a mile, 

Ci Yet, were he lying under the snows, Miss, 

They ’d melt into tears at your smile.” 

And “ you ’ll still think of him in your pleasures, 

In your brief twilight dreams of the past ; 

In this green laurel spray that he treasures, — 

It was plucked where your parting was last j 

In this specimen, — but a small trifle, — 

It will do for a pin for your shawl.” 

(Which, the truth not to wickedly stifle, 

Was his last week’s “ clean up,” — and his all.) 

He ’s asleep, which the same might seem strange, Miss, 
Were it not that I scorn to deny 

That I raised his last dose, for a change, Miss, 

In view that his fever was high ; 

But he lies there quite peaceful and pensive. 

And now, my respects, Miss, to you ; 

Which my language, although comprehensive, 

Might seem to be freedom, is true. 


162 


IN DIALECT 


For I have a small favor to ask you, 

As concerns a bull-pup, and the same, — 

If the duty would not overtask you, — 

You would please to procure for me, game ; 
And send per express to the Flat, Miss, — 

For they say York is famed for the breed, 
Which, though words of deceit may he that, Miss, 
I ’ll trust to your taste, Miss, indeed. 

P.S. — Which this same interfering 
Into other folks’ way I despise ; 

Yet if it so he I was hearing 

That it ’s just empty pockets as lies 
Betwixt you and Joseph, it f oilers 
That, having no family claims, 

Here ’s my pile, which it ’s six hundred dollars, 

As is yours , with respects, 


Truthful James. 


“THE RETURN - OF BELISARIUS” 


(mud FLAT, 1860) 

So you ’re back from your travels, old fellow, 

And you left but a twelvemonth ago ; 

You ’ve hobnobbed with Louis Napoleon, 

Eugenie, and kissed the Pope’s toe. 

By Jove, it is perfectly stunning, 

Astounding, — and all that, you know ; 

Yes, things are about as you left them 
In Mud Flat a twelvemonth ago. 

The boys ! — they ’re all right, — Oh ! Dick Ashley, 
He ’s buried somewhere in the snow ; 

He was lost on the Summit last winter, 

And Bob has a hard row to hoe. 

You know that he ’s got the consumption ? 

You did n’t ! Well, come, that ’s a go ; 

I certainly wrote you at Baden, — 

Dear me ! that was six months ago. 

I got all your outlandish letters, 

All stamped by some foreign P. 0. 

I handed myself to Miss Mary 
That sketch of a famous chateau. 

Tom Saunders is living at ’Frisco, — 

They say that he cuts quite a show. 

You did n’t meet Euchre-deck Billy 
Anywhere on your road to Cairo ? 


164 


IN DIALECT 


So you thought of the rusty old cabin, 
The pines, and the valley below, 

And heard the North Fork of the Yuba 
As you stood on the hanks of the Po ? 
’ T was just like your romance, old fellow 
But now there is standing a row 
Of stores on the site of the cabin 

That you lived in a twelvemonth ago. 

But it ’s jolly to see you, old fellow, — 
To think it *s a twelvemonth ago ! 

And you have seen Louis Napoleon, 

And look like a Johnny Crapaud. 
Come in. You will surely see Mary, — 
You know we are married. What, no 
Oh, ay ! I forgot there was something 
Between you a twelvemonth ago. 



^ The pines, and the valley below. ” Page 164. 









FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL 
JAMES 


(NYE’s FORD, STANISLAUS, 1870) 

Do I sleep ? do I dream ? 

Do I wonder and doubt ? 

Are things what they seem ? 

Or is visions about ? 

Is our civilization a failure ? 

Or is the Caucasian played out ? 

Which expressions are strong ; 

Yet would feebly imply 
Some account of a wrong — 

Not to call it a lie — 

As was worked off on William, my pardner, 
And the same being W. Nye. 

He came down to the Ford 
On the very same day 
Of that lottery d rawed 
By those sharps at the Bay ; 

And he says to me, “ Truthful, how goes it ? ” 
I replied, “ It is far, far from gay ; 

“ For the camp has gone wild 
On this lottery game, 

And has even beguiled 
‘Injin Dick * by the same.” 

Then said Nye to me, “ Injins is pizen: 

But what is his number, eh, James ?” 


166 


IN DIALECT 


I replied, “ 7, 2, 

9, 8, 4, is his hand ; ” 

When he started, and drew 
Out a list, which he scanned ; 

Then he softly went for his revolver 
With language I cannot command. 

Then I said, “ William Nye ! ” 

But he turned upon me, 

And the look in his eye 
Was quite painful to see ; 

And he says, “ You mistake ; this poor Injin 
I protects from such sharps as you he ! ” 

I was shocked and withdrew ; 

But I grieve to relate, 

When he next met my view 
Injin Dick was his mate ; 

And the two around town was a-lying 
In a frightfully dissolute state. 

Which the war dance they had 
Bound a tree at the Bend 
Was a sight that was sad; 

And it seemed that the end 
Would not justify the proceedings, 

As I quiet remarked to a friend. 

For that Injin he fled 
The next day to his band ; 

And we found William spread 
Very loose on the strand, 

With a peaceful-like smile on his features, 
And a dollar greenback in his hand ; 


FURTHER LANGUAGE FROM TRUTHFUL JAMES 


167 


Which the same, when rolled out, 
We observed, with surprise, 

Was what he, no doubt, 

Thought the number and prize — 
Them figures in red in the corner, 
Which the number of notes specifies. 

Was it guile, or a dream ? 

Is it Nye that I doubt ? 

Are things what they seem ? 

Or is visions about ? 

Is our civilization a failure ? 

Or is the Caucasian played out ? 


AFTER THE ACCIDENT 


(mouth of the shaft) 

What I want is my husband, sir, 
And if you ’re a man, sir, 
You ’ll give me an answer, — 
Where is my Joe ? 

Penrhyn, sir, J oe, — 
Caernarvonshire. 

Six months ago 

Since we came here — 

Eh ? — Ah, you know ! 

Well, I am quiet 
And still, 

But I must stand here, 

And will ! 

Please, I ’ll he strong, 

If you ’ll just let me wait 
Inside o’ that gate 
Till the news comes along. 

“ Negligence ! ” — 

That was the cause ! — 

Butchery ! 

Are there no laws, 

Laws to protect such as we ? 

Well, then ! 

I won’t raise my voice. 


AFTER THE ACCIDENT 


169 


There, men ! 

I won’t make no noise, 

Only you just let me be. 

Four, only four — did he say — 
Saved ! and the other ones ? — Eh ? 
Why do they call ? 

Why are they all 
Looking and coming this way ? 

What ’s that ? — a message ? 

I ’ll take it. 

T know his wife, sir, 

I ’ll break it. 

“ Foreman ! ” 

Ay, ay ! 

" Out by and by, — 

Just saved his life. 

Say to his wife 
Soon he ’ll be free.” 

Will I ? — God bless you ! 

It ’s me ! 


THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW 


Why, as to that, said the engineer, 

Ghosts ain’t things we are apt to fear ; 

Spirits don’t fool with levers much, 

And throttle- valves don’t take to such j 
And as for Jim, 

What happened to him 
Was one half fact, and t’ other half whim ! 

Kunning one night on the line, he saw 
A house — as plain as the moral law — 

Just by the moonlit bank, and thence 
Came a drunken man with no* more sense 
Than to drop on the rail 
Flat as a flail, 

As Jim drove by with the midnight mail. 

Down went the patents — steam reversed. 

Too late ! for there came a “ thud.” Jim cursed 
As the fireman, there in the cab with him, 

Kinder stared in the face of Jim, 

And says, “ What now ? ” 

Says Jim, " What now ! 

I ’ve just run over a man, — that ’s how ! ” 

The fireman stared at Jim. They ran 
Back, but they never found house nor man, — 
Nary a shadow within a mile. 

Jim turned pale, but he tried to smile, 


THE GHOST THAT JIM SAW 


171 


Then on he tore 
Ten mile or more, 

In quicker time than he 'd made afore. 

Would you believe it ! the very next night 
Up rose that house in the moonlight white, 

Out comes the chap and drops as before, 

Down goes the brake and the rest encore ; 

And so, in fact, 

Each night that act 

Occurred, till folks swore Jim was cracked. 

Humph ! let me see ; it 's a year now, 'most, 

That I met Jim, East, and says, “ How 's your ghost ? ” 
“Gone,” says Jim ; “ and more, it 's plain 
That ghost don't trouble me again. 

I thought I shook 
That ghost when I took 
A place on an Eastern line, — but look ! 

“ What should I meet, the first trip out, 

But the very house we talked about, 

And the selfsame man ! * Well,' says I, ‘ I guess 

It 's time to stop this 'yer foolishness.' 

So I crammed on steam, 

When there came a scream 
From my fireman, that jest broke my dream : 

" ‘ You 've killed somebody ! ' Says I, ‘ Not much ! 

I 've been thar often, and thar ain't no such, 

And now I '11 prove it ! ' Back we ran, 

And — darn my skin ! — but thar was a man 
On the rail, dead, 

Smashed in the head ! — 

Now I call that meanness ! ” That 's all Jim said. 


“ SEVENTY-NINE ” 


(me. interviewer interviewed) 

Know me next time when you see me, won’t you, old 
smarty ? 

Oh, I mean you , old figger-head, — just the same party ! 

Take out your pensivil, d — n you ; sharpen it, do ! 

Any complaints to make ? Lots of ’em — one of ’em ’s you. 

You ! who are you , anyhow, goin’ round in that sneakin’ 
way ? 

Never in jail before, was you, old blatherskite, say ? 

Look at it ; don’t it look pooty ? Oh, grin, and be d — d 
to you, do ! 

But if I had you this side o’ that gratin,’ I ’d just make it 
lively for you. 

How did I get in here ? Well what ’ud you give to 
know ? 

’T was n’t by sneakin’ round where I had n’t no call to go ; 

’T was n’t by hangin’ round a-spyin’ unfortnet men. 

Grin ! but I ’ll stop your jaw if ever you do that agen. 

Why don’t you say suthin, blast you ? Speak your mind 
if you dare. 

Ain’t I a bad lot, sonny ? Say it, and call it square. 

Hain’t got no tongue, hey, hev ye ? Oh, guard ! here ’s 
a little swell 

A cussin’ and swearin’ and yellin’, and bribin’ me not to 
tell. 


SEVENTY-NINE 173 

There ! I thought that ’ud fetch ye ! And you want to know 
my name ? 

“ Seventy-nine ” they call me, hut that is their little game ; 

For I ’m werry highly connected, as a gent, sir, can under- 
stand, 

And my family hold their heads up with the very furst in 
the land. 

For ’t was all, sir, a put-up job on a pore young man like 
me ; 

And the jury was bribed a puppos, and at furst they 
could n’t agree ; 

And I sed to the judge, sez I, — Oh, grin ! it ’s all right, 
my son ! 

But you ’re a werry lively young pup, and you ain’t to he 
played upon ! 

Wot ’s that you got ? — tobacco ? I’m cussed hut I 
thought ’twas a tract. 

Thank ye ! A chap t’ other day — now, lookee, this is a 
fact — 

Slings me a tract on the evils o’ keepin’ had company, 

As if all the saints was howlin’ to stay here along o’ we. 

No, I hain’t no complaints. Stop, yes ; do you see that 
chap, — 

Him standin’ over there, a-hidin’ his eyes in his cap ? 

Well, that man’s stumick is weak, and he can’t stand the 
pris’n fare ; 

For the coffee is just half beans, and the sugar it ain’t 
nowhere. 

Perhaps it ’s his bringin’ up ; but he ’s sickenin’ day by 
day, 

And he does n’t take no food, and I ’m seein’ him waste 
away. 


174 IN DIALECT 

And it is n’t the thing to see ; for, whatever he ’s been and 
done, 

Starvation is n’t the plan as he ’s to be saved upon. 

For he cannot rough it like me ; and he hasn’t the stamps, 
I guess, 

To buy him his extry grub outside o’ the pris’n mess. 

And perhaps if a gent like you, with whom I ’ve been sorter 
free, 

Would — thank you! But, say! look here! Oh, blast 
it ! don’t give it to me ! 

Don’t you give it to me ; now, don’t ye, don’t ye, don't ! 

You think it’s a put-up job; so I’ll thank ye, sir, if you 
won’t. 

But hand him the stamps yourself : why, he is n’t even my 
pal; 

And, if it’s a comfort to you, why, I don’t intend that he 
shall. 


THE STAGE-DRIVER’S STORY 


It was the stage-driver’s story, as he stood with his hack to 
the wheelers, 

Quietly flecking his whip, and turning his quid of tobacco ; 

While on the dusty road, and blent with the rays of the 
moonlight, 

We saw the long curl of his lash and the juice of tobacco 
descending. 

" Danger ! Sir, I believe you, — indeed, I may say, on 
that subject, 

You your existence might put to the hazard and turn of a 
wager. 

I have seen danger ? Oh, no ! not me, sir, indeed, I assure 
you : 

’T was only the man with the dog that is sitting alone in 
yon wagon. 

“ It was the Geiger Grade, a mile and a half from the 
summit : 

Black as your hat was the night, and never a star in the 
heavens. 

Thundering down the grade, the gravel and stones we sent 
flying 

Over the precipice side, — a thousand feet plumb to the 
bottom. 

“ Half-way down the grade I felt, sir, a thrilling and creak- 
ing, 

Then a lurch to one side, as we hung on the bank of the 
canon ; 


176 IN DIALECT 

Then, looking up the road, I saw, in the distance behind 
me, 

The off hind wheel of the coach, just loosed from its axle, 
and following. 

“ One glance alone I gave, then gathered together my rib- 
bons, 

Shouted, and flung them, outspread, on the straining necks 
of my cattle ; 

Screamed at the top of my voice, and lashed the air in my 
frenzy, 

While down the Geiger Grade, on three wheels, the vehicle 
thundered. 

“ Speed was our only chance, when again came the ominous 
rattle : 

Crack, and another wheel slipped away, and was lost in the 
darkness. 

Two only now were left ; yet such was our fearful momen- 
tum, 

Upright, erect, and sustained on two wheels, the vehicle 
thundered. 

“As some huge boulder, unloosed from its rocky shelf on 
the mountain, 

Drives before it the hare and the timorous squirrel, far 
leaping, • 

So down the Geiger Grade rushed the Pioneer coach, and 
before it 

Leaped the wild horses, and shrieked in advance of the 
danger impending. 

“ But to be brief in my tale. Again, ere we came to the 
level, 

Slipped from its axle a wheel ; so that, to be plain in my 
statement, 


THE STAGE-DRIVER’S STORY 


177 


A matter of twelve hundred yards or more, as the distance 
may he, 

We traveled upon one wheel, until we drove up to the 
station. 

“ Then, sir, we sank in a heap ; but, picking myself from 
the ruins, 

I heard a noise up the grade ; and looking, I saw in the 
distance 

The three wheels following still, like moons on the horizon 
whirling, 

Till, circling, they gracefully sank on the road at the side 
of the station. 

“ This is my story, sir ; a trifle, indeed, I assure you. 

Much more, perchance, might he said — but I hold him of 
all men most lightly 

Who swerves from the truth in his tale. No, thank you — 
Well, since you are pressing, 

Perhaps I don’t care if I do : you may give me the same, 
Jim, — no sugar.” 


A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE 


REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES 

It was Andrew Jackson Sutter who, despising Mr. Cutter 
for remarks he heard him utter in debate upon the 
floor, 

Swung him up into the skylight, in the peaceful, pensive 
twilight, and then keerlessly proceeded, makin’ no 
account what we did — 

To wipe up with his person casual dust upon the floor. 

Now a square fight never frets me, nor unpleasantness up- 
sets me, hut the simple thing that gets me — now 
the job is done and gone, 

And we ’ve come home free and merry from the peaceful 
cemetery, leavin' Cutter there with Sutter — that 
mebbee just a stutter 

On the part of Mr. Cutter caused the loss we deeply mourn. 

Some bashful hesitation, just like spellin’ punctooation — 
might have worked an aggravation on to Sutter’s 
mournful mind, 

For the witnesses all vary ez to wot was said and nary a 
galoot will toot his horn except the way he is in- 
clined. 

But they all allow that Sutter had begun a kind of mutter, 
when uprose Mr. Cutter with a sickening kind of 
ease, 

And proceeded then to wade in to the subject then pre- 
vadin’ : “ Is Profanity degradin’ ? ” in words like 

unto these : 


A QUESTION OF PRIVILEGE 


179 


“ Onlike the previous speaker, Mr. Sutter of Yreka, he was 
but a humble seeker — and not like him — a 
cuss ” — 

It was here that Mr. Sutter softly reached for Mr. Cutter, 
when the latter with a stutter said : " ac-customed 
to discuss.” 

Then Sutter he rose grimly, and sorter smilin’ dimly bowed 
onto the Chairman primly — (just like Cutter ez 
could he !) 

Drawled “ he guessed he must fall — back — as — Mr. 
Cutter owned the pack — as — he just had played 
the — Jack — as — ” (here Cutter’s gun went crack ! 
as Mr. Sutter gasped and ended) “ every man can 
see ! ” 

But William Henry Pryor — just in range of Sutter’s fire 
— here evinced a wild desire to do somebody harm, 

And in the general scrimmage no one thought if Sutter’s 
“ image ” was a misplaced punctooation — like the 
hole in Pryor’s arm. 

For we all waltzed in together, never carin’ to ask whether 
it was Sutter or was Cutter we woz tryin’ to abate. 

But we could n’t help perceivin’, when we took to inkstand 
heavin’, that the process was relievin’ to the sharps 
ness of debate. 

So we ’ve come home free and merry from the peaceful 
cemetery, and I make no commentary on these simple 
childish games ; 

Things is various and human — and the man ain’t born of 
woman who is free to intermeddle with his pal’s 
intents and aims. 


THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS 


REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES 

We hev tumbled ez dust 
Or ez worms of the yearth ; 

Wot we looked for hez bust ! 

We are objects of mirth ! 

They have played us — old Pards of the river ! — they hev 
played us for all we was worth ! 

Was it euchre or draw 
, Cut us off in our bloom ? 

Was it faro, whose law 
Is uncertain ez doom ? 

Or an innocent “ Jack pot ” that — opened — was to us ez 
the jaws of the tomb ? 

It was nary ! It kem 

With some sharps from the States, 

Ez folks sez, “ All things kem 
To the fellers ez waits ; ” 

And we ’d waited six months for that suthin’ — had me and 
Bill Nye — in such straits ! 

And it kem. It was small ; 

It was dream-like and weak ; 

It wore store clothes — that ’s all 
That we knew, so to speak ; 

But it called itself " Billson, Thought-Reader ” — which 
ain’t half a name for its cheek ! 


THE THOUGHT-READER OF ANGELS 


181 


He could read wot you thought, 

And he knew wot you did ; 

He could find things untaught, 

No matter whar hid ; 

And he went to it, blindfold and smiling, being led by the 
hand like a kid ! 

Then I glanced at Bill Nye, 

And I sez, without pride, 

" You ’ll excuse us. We ’ve nigh 
On to nothin’ to hide ; 

But if some gent will lend us a twenty, we ’ll hide it whar 
folks shall decide.” 

It was Billson’s own self 
Who forked over the gold, 

With a smile. “ Thar ’s the pelf,” 

He remarked. “ I make bold 

To advance it, and go twenty better that I ’ll find it with- 
out being told.” 

Then I passed it to Nye, 

Who repassed it to me. 

And we bandaged each eye 
Of that Billson — ez we 

Softly dropped that coin in his coat pocket, ez the hull 
crowd around us could see. 

That was all. He ’d one hand 

Locked in mine. Then he groped. 

We could not understand 
Why that minit Nye sloped, 

For we knew we ’d the dead thing on Billson — even more 
than we dreamed of or hoped. 


182 


IN DIALECT 


For he stood thar in doubt 
With his hand to his head ; 

Then he turned, and lit out 

Through the door where Nye fled, 

Draggin’ me and the rest of us arter, while we larfed till we 
thought we was dead, 

Till he overtook Nye 

And went through him. Words fail 

For what toilers ! Kin I 
Paint our agonized wail 

Ez he drew from Nye’s pocket that twenty wot we*d 
sworn was in his own coat-tail ! 

And it was ! But, when found, 

It proved bogus and brass ! 

And the question goes round 
How the thing kem to pass ? 

Or, if passed, woz it passed thar by William ; and I listens, 
and echoes “ Alas ! 

“ For the days when the skill 
Of the keerds was no blind, 

When no effort of will 
Could heat four of a kind, 

When the thing wot you held in your hand, Pard, was 
worth more than the thing in your mind.” 


THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS 


(REPORTED BY TRUTHFUL JAMES) 

Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my 
knee, 

And drop them books and first pot-hooks, and hear a yarn 
from me. 

I kin not sling a fairy tale of Jinny s 1 fierce and wild, 

For I hold it is unchristian to deceive a simple child ; 

But as from school yer driftin’ by, I thowt ye’d like to 
hear 

Of a “ Spelling Bee ” at Angels that we organized last year. 

It warn’t made up of gentle kids, of pretty kids, like you, 

But gents ez hed their reg’lar growth, and some enough for 

t^o. 

There woz Lanky Jim of Sutter’s Fork and Bilson of La- 
grange, 

And “ Pistol Bob,” who wore that day a knife by way of 
change. 

You start, you little kids, you think these are not pretty 
names, 

But each had a man behind it, and — my name is Truthful 
James. 

There was Poker Dick from Whisky Flat, and Smith of 
Shooter’s Bend, 

And Brown of Calaveras — which I want no better friend ; 

Three-fingered Jack — yes, pretty dears, three fingers — 
you have five. 

1 Qy- Genii. 


184 IN DIALECT 

Clapp cut off two — it ’s singular, too, that Clapp ain’t now 
alive. 

*T was very wrong indeed, my dears, and Clapp was much 
to blame ; 

Likewise was Jack, in after-years, for shootin’ of that same. 

The nights was kinder lengthenin’ out, the rains had jest 
* begun, 

When all the camp came up to Pete’s to have their usual 
fun ; 

But we all sot kinder sad-like around the bar-room stove 

Till Smith got up, permiskiss-like, and this remark he hove : 

“ Thar ’s a new game down in Prisco, that ez far ez I can 
see 

Beats euchre, poker, and van-toon, they calls the ‘ Spellin’ 
Bee.’ ” 

Then Brown of Calaveras simply hitched his chair and 
spake, 

u Poker is good enough for me,” and Lanky Jim sez, 
“ Shake ! ” 

And Bob allowed he warn’t proud, but he “ must say right 
thar 

That the man who tackled euchre hed his education squar.” 

This brought up Lenny Pairchild, the schoolmaster, who 
said 

He knew the game, and he would give instructions on that 
head. 

“For instance, take some simple word,” sez he, “like 
‘ separate : ’ 

How who can spell it ? ” Dog my skin, ef thar was one in 
eight. 

This set the boys all wild at once. The chairs was put in 
row, 


THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS 


185 


And at the head was Lanky Jim, and at the foot was Joe, 
And high upon the bar itself the schoolmaster was raised, 
And the bar-keep put his glasses down, and sat and silent 
gazed. 

The first word out was “ parallel/’ and seven let it he, 

Till Joe waltzed in his “ double 1” betwixt the “a ” and 

tt & . >> 
e > 

For since he drilled them Mexicans in San Jacinto’s fight 
Thar warn’t no prouder man got up than Pistol Joe that 
night — 

Till “ rhythm” came ! He tried to smile, then said “they 
had him there,” 

And Lanky Jim, with one long stride, got up and took his 
chair. 

0 little kids, my pretty kids, ’t was touchin’ to survey 
These bearded men, with weppings on, like schoolboys at 
their play. 

They ’d laugh with glee, and shout to see each other lead 
the van, 

And Bob sat up as monitor with a cue for a rattan, 

Till the Chair gave out “ incinerate,” and Brown said he ’d 
be durned 

If any such blamed word as that in school was ever learned. 

When “ phthisis ” came they all sprang up, and vowed the 
man who rung 

Another blamed Greek word on them be taken out and hung. 
As they sat down again I saw in Bilson’s eye a flash, 

And Brown of Calaveras was a-twistin’ his mustache, 

And when at last Brown slipped on “ gneiss,” and Bilson 
took his chair, 

He dropped some casual words about some folks who dyed 
their hair. 


186 IN DIALECT 

And then the Chair grew very white, and the Chair said 
he ’d adjourn, 

But Poker Dick remarked that he would wait and get his 
turn ; 

Then with a tremblin'* voice and hand, and with a wanderin’ 
eye, 

The Chair next offered u eider-duck,” and Dick began with 
u t » 

And Bilson smiled — then Bilson shrieked ! Just how the 
fight begun 

I never knowed, for Bilson dropped, and Dick, he moved 
up one. 

Then certain gents arose and said “ they ’d business down 
in camp,” 

And “ ez the road was rather dark, and ez the night was 
damp, 

They ’d ” — here got up Three-fingered Jack and locked 
the door and yelled : 

“ No, not one mother’s son goes out till that thar word is 
spelled ! ” 

But while the words were on his lips, he groaned and sank 
in pain, 

And sank with Webster on his chest and Worcester on his 
brain. 

Below the bar dodged Poker Dick, and tried to look ez he 

Was huntin’ up authorities thet no one else could see ; 

And Brown got down behind the stove, allowin’ he “ was 
cold,” 

Till it upsot and down his legs the cinders freely rolled, 

And several gents called “ Order ! ” till in his simple way 

Poor Smith began with “ O-r ” — “ Or ” — and he was 
dragged away. 


THE SPELLING BEE AT ANGELS 187 

0 little kids, my pretty kids, down on your knees and 
pray ! 

You 've got your eddication in a peaceful sort of way ; 

And bear in mind thar may be sharps ez slings their spellin' 
square, 

But likewise slings their bowie-knives without a thought or 
care. 

You wants to know the rest, my dears ? Thet 's all ! In 
me you see 

The only gent that lived to tell about the Spellin' Bee ! 


He ceased and passed, that truthful man ; the children went 
their way 

With downcast heads and downcast hearts — but not to 
sport or play. 

For when at eve the lamps were lit, and supperless to bed 

Each child was sent, with tasks undone and lessons all un- 
said, 

No man might know the awful woe that thrilled their 
youthful frames, 

As they dreamed of Angels Spelling Bee and thought of 
Truthful James. 


ARTEMIS IN SIERRA 


DRAMATIS PERSONS 
Poet. Philosopher. Jones of Mariposa 
POET 

Halt ! Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle 
Just where you stand ; then doff your hat and swear 
Never yet was scene you might cover with your rifle 
Half as complete or as marvelously fair. 

PHILOSOPHER 

Dropped from Olympus or lifted out of Tempe, 

Swung like a censer betwixt the earth and sky ! 

He who in Greece sang of flocks and flax and hemp, — he 
Here might recall them — six thousand feet on high ! 

POET 

Well you may say so. The clamor of the river, 

Hum of base toil, and man’s ignoble strife, 

Halt far below, where the stifling sunbeams quiver, 

But never climb to this purer, higher life ! 

Not to this glade, where Jones of Mariposa, 

Simple and meek as his flocks we ’re looking at, 

Tends his soft charge ; nor where his daughter Bosa — 

(A shot.) 

Hallo! What’s that? 

PHILOSOPHER 

A — something thro’ my hat — 
Bullet, I think. You were speaking of his daughter ? 


ARTEMIS IN SIERRA 


189 


POET 

Yes ; "but — your hat you were moving through the leaves ; 

Likely he thought it some eagle bent on slaughter. 
Lightly he shoots — (A second shot.) 

PHILOSOPHER 

As one readily perceives. 

Still, he improves ! This time your hat has got it, 

Quite near the band ! Eh ? Oh, just as you please — 
Stop, or go on. 


POET 

Perhaps we ’d better trot it 
Down through the hollow, and up among the trees. 

BOTH 

Trot, trot, trot, where the bullets cannot follow ; 

Trot down and up again among the laurel trees. 

PHILOSOPHER 

Thanks, that is better ; now of this shot-dispensing 
Jones and his girl — you were saying — 

POET 

Well, you see — 

I — hang it all ! — Oh ! what ’s the use of fencing ! 

Sir, I confess it ! — these shots were meant for me. 

PHILOSOPHER 

You ! are you mad ! 


POET 

God knows, I should n’t wonder ! 
I love this coy nymph, yrho, coldly — as yon peak 


190 


IN DIALECT 


Shines on the river it feeds, yet keeps asunder — 

Long have I worshiped, but never dared to speak. 

Till she, no doubt, her love no longer hiding, 

Waked by some chance word her father’s jealousy ; 

Slips her disdain — as an avalanche down gliding 

Sweeps flocks and kin away — to clear a path for me. 

Hence his attack. 

PHILOSOPHER 

I see. What I admire 
Chiefly, I think, in your idyl, so to speak, 

Is the cool modesty that checks your youthful fire, — 
Absence of self-love and abstinence of cheek ! 

Still, I might mention, I’ve met the gentle Rosa, — 
Danced with her thrice, to her father’s jealous dread ; 

And, it is possible, she ’s happened to disclose a — 

Ahem ! You can fancy why he shoots at me instead. 

POET 

You? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Me. But kindly take your hand from your revolver; 
I am not choleric — but accidents may chance. 

And here ’s the father, who alone can be the solver 
Of this twin riddle of the hat and the romance. 

Enter Jones of Mariposa. 

POET 

Speak, shepherd — mine ! 

PHILOSOPHER 

Hail ! Time-and-cartridge waster, 
Aimless exploder of theories and skill ! 

Whom do you shoot ? 


ARTEMIS IN SIERRA 


191 


JONES OF MARIPOSA 

Well, shootin’ ain’t my taste, or 
Ef I shoot anything — I only shoot to kill. 

That ain’t what ’s up. I only kem to tell ye — 

Sportin’ or courtin’ — trot homeward for your life ! 
Gals will be gals, and p’r’aps it ’s just ez well ye 
Larned there was one had no wish to he — a wife. 

POET 

What? 

PHILOSOPHER 

Is this true ? 

JONES OF MARIPOSA 

I reckon it looks like it. 

She saw ye cornin’. My gun was standin’ by ; 

She made a grab, and ’fore I up could strike it, 

Blazed at ye both ! The critter is so shy ! 

POET 

Who? 

JONES OF MARIPOSA 

My darter ! 


PHILOSOPHER 

Rosa ? 

JONES OF MARIPOSA 

Same ! Good-by ! 


JACK OF THE TULES 


(SOUTHERN CALIFORNIA) 

Shrewdly you question, Senor, and I fancy 
You are no novice. Confess that to little 
Of my poor gossip of Mission and Pueblo 
You are a stranger ! 

Am I not right ? Ah ! believe me, that ever 
Since we joined company at the posada 
I ’ve watched you closely, and — pardon an old priest 
I ’ve caught you smiling ! 

Smiling to hear an old fellow like me talk 
Gossip of pillage and robbers, and even 
Air his opinion of law and alcaldes 
Like any other ! 

How ! — by that twist of the wrist on the bridle, 

By that straight line from the heel to the shoulder, 
By that curt speech, — nay ! nay ! no offense, son, — 
You are a soldier ? 

Ho ? Then a man of affairs ? San Sebastian ! 

*T would serve me right if I prattled thus wildly 
To — say a sheriff ? Ho ? — just caballero ? 

Well, more 9 s the pity. 

Ah ! what we want here 9 s a man of your presence j 
Sano, Secreto , — yes, all the' four S’s, 


JACK OF THE TULES 


193 


Joined with a boldness and dash, when the time comes, 
And — may I say it ? — 

One not too hard on the poor country people, 

Peons and silly vaqueros, who, dazzled 
By reckless skill, and, perchance, reckless largesse, 
Wink at some queer things. 

No ? You would crush them as well as the robbers, — 
Root them out, scatter them ? Ah ! you are bitter — 
And yet — quien sale, perhaps that ’s the one way 
To catch their leader. 

As to myself, now, I ’d share your displeasure ; 

For I admit in this Jack of the Tules 
Certain good points. He still comes to confession — 
You ’d “ like to catch him ” ? 

Ah, if you did at such times, you might lead him 
Home by a thread. Good ! Again you are smiling : 
You have no faith in such shrift, and hut little 
In priest or penitent. 

Bueno ! We take no offense, sir ; whatever 
It please you to say, it becomes us, for Church sake, 

To bear in peace. Yet, if you were kinder — 

And less suspicious — 

I might still prove to you, Jack of the Tules 
Shames not our teaching ; nay, even might show you, 
Hard by this spot, his old comrade, who, wounded, 
Lives on his bounty. 

If — ah, you listen ! — I see I can trust you ; 

Then, on your word as a gentleman — follow. 


194 


IN DIALECT 


Under that sycamore stands the old cabin ; 

There sits his comrade. 

Eh ! — are you mad ? You would try to arrest him ? 
You, with a warrant ? Oh, well, take the rest of them : 
Pedro, Bill, Murray, Pat Doolan. Hey ! — all of you, 
Tumble out, d n it ! 

There ! — that ’ll do, boys ! Stand back ! Ease his 
elbows ; 

Take the gag from his mouth. Good ! How scatter like 
devils 

After his posse — four straggling, four drunken — 

At the posada. 

You — help me off with these togs, and then vamos ! 
Now, ole Jeff Dobbs ! — Sheriff, Scout, and Detective ! 
You ’re so derned ’cute ! Kinder sick, ain’t ye, bluffing 
Jack of the Tules ! 


IY. MISCELLANEOUS 


A GBEYPOBT LEGEND 
( 1797 ) 

They ran through the streets of the seaport town, 
They peered from the decks of the ships that lay j 
The cold sea-fog that came whitening down 
Was never as cold or white as they. 

“ Ho, Starbuck and Pinckney and Tenterden ! 

Bun for your shallops, gather your men, 

Scatter your boats on the lower bay.” 

Good cause for fear ! In the thick mid-day 
The hulk that lay by the rotting pier, 

Filled with the children in happy play, 

Parted its moorings and drifted clear, 

Drifted clear beyond reach or call, — 

Thirteen children they were in all, — 

All adrift in the lower hay ! 

Said a hard-faced skipper, “ God help us all ! 

She will not float till the turning tide ! ” 

Said his wife, “ My darling will hear my call, 
Whether in sea or heaven she hide ; ” 

And she lifted a quavering voice and high, 

Wild and strange as a sea-bird’s cry, 

Till they shuddered and wondered at her side. 


196 


MISCELLANEOUS 


The fog drove down on each laboring crew, 

Veiled each from each and the sky and shore : 

There was not a sound but the breath they drew, 

And the lap of water and creak of oar ; 

And they felt the breath of the downs, fresh blown 
O’er leagues of clover and cold gray stone, 

But not from the lips that had gone before. 

They came no more. But they tell the tale 
That, when fogs are thick on the harbor reef, 

The mackerel fishers shorten sail — 

For the signal they know will bring relief ; 

For the voices of children, still at play 
In a phantom hulk that drifts alway 

Through channels whose waters never fail. 

It is but a foolish shipman’s tale, 

A theme for a poet’s idle page ; 

But still, when the mists of Doubt prevail, 

And we lie becalmed by the shores of Age, 

We hear from the misty troubled shore 
The voice of the children gone before, 

Drawing the soul to its anchorage. 



This sad old house by the sea. - ’ Page 197. 























































































































































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A NEWPOBT BOMANCE 


They say that she died of a broken heart 
(I tell the tale as ’ t was told to me) ; 

But her spirit lives, and her soul is part 
Of this sad old house by the sea. 

Her lover was fickle and fine and French : 

It was nearly a hundred years ago 

When he sailed away from her arms — poor wench ! 
With the Admiral Bochambeau. 

I marvel much what periwigged phrase 

Won the heart of this sentimental Quaker, 

At what gold-laced speech of those modish days 
She listened — the mischief take her ! 

But she kept the posies of mignonette 

That he gave ; and ever as their bloom failed 

And faded (though with her tears still wet) 

Her youth with their own exhaled. 

Till one night, when the sea-fog wrapped a shroud 
Bound spar and spire and tarn and tree, 

Her soul went up on that lifted cloud 
From this sad old house by the sea. 

And ever since then, when the clock strikes two, 
She walks unhidden from room to room, 

And the air is filled that she passes through 
With a subtle, sad perfume. 


198 


MISCELLANEOUS 


The delicate odor of mignonette, 

The ghost of a dead-and-gone bouquet, 

Is all that tells of her story ; yet 
Could she think of a sweeter way ? 

I sit in the sad old house to-night, — 

Myself a ghost from a farther sea ; 

And I trust that this Quaker woman might, 

In courtesy, visit me. 

For the laugh is fled from porch and lawn, 

And the bugle died from the fort on the hill, 

And the twitter of girls on the stairs is gone, 

And the grand piano is still. 

Somewhere in the darkness a clock strikes two ; 
And there is no sound in the sad old house, 

But the long veranda dripping with dew, 

And in the wainscot a mouse. 

The light of my study-lamp streams out 
From the library door, but has gone astray 

In the depths of the darkened hall. Small doubt 
But the Quakeress knows the way. 

Was it the trick of a sense o’erwrought 
With outward watching and inward fret ? 

But I swear that the air just now was fraught 
With the odor of mignonette ! 

I open the window, and seem almost — 

So still lies the ocean — to hear the beat 

Of its Great Gulf artery off the coast, 

And to bask in its tropic heat. 


A NEWPORT ROMANCE 

In my neighbor’s windows the gas-lights flare, 

As the dancers swing in a waltz of Strauss ; 

And I wonder now could I fit that air 
To the song of this sad old house. 

And no odor of mignonette there is, 

But the breath of morn on the dewy lawn ; 

And mayhap from causes as slight as this 
The quaint old legend is horn. 

But the soul of that subtle, sad perfume, 

As the spiced embalmings, they say, outlast 

The mummy laid in his rocky tomb, 

Awakens my buried past. 

And I think of the passion that shook my youth, 
Of its aimless loves and its idle pains, 

And am thankful now for the certain truth 
That only the sweet remains. 

And I hear no rustle of stiff brocade, 

And I see no face at my library door ; 

Bor now that the ghosts of my heart are laid, 

She is viewless for evermore. 

But whether she came as a faint perfume, 

Or whether a spirit in stole of white, 

I feel, as I pass from the darkened room, 

She has been with my soul to-night ! 


SAN FRANCISCO 


(from the sea) 

Serene, indifferent of Fate, 

Thou sittest at the Western Gate ; 

Upon thy height, so lately won, 

Still slant the banners of the sun ; 

Thou seest the white seas strike their tents, 
0 Warder of two continents ! 

And, scornful of the peace that flies 
Thy angry winds and sullen skies, 

Thou drawest all things, small or great, 

To thee, beside the Western Gate. 

0 lion’s whelp, that hidest fast 

In jungle growth of spire and mast! 

1 know thy cunning and thy greed, 

Thy hard high lust and willful deed, 

And all thy glory loves to tell 
Of specious gifts material. 

Drop down, 0 Fleecy Fog, and hide 
Her skeptic sneer and all her pride ! 


SAN FRANCISCO 


201 


Wrap her, 0 Fog, in gown and hood 
Of her Franciscan Brotherhood. 

Hide me her faults, her sin and blame ; 
With thy gray mantle cloak her shame ! 

So shall she, cowled, sit and pray 
Till morning hears her sins away. 

Then rise, 0 Fleecy Fog, and raise 
The glory of her coming days ; 

Be as the cloud that flecks the seas 
Above her smoky argosies j 

When forms familiar shall give place 
To stranger speech and newer face ; 

When all her throes and anxious fears 
Lie hushed in the repose of years ; 

When Art shall raise and Culture lift 
The sensual joys and meaner thrift, 

And all fulfilled the vision we 
Who watch and wait shall never see j 

Who, in the morning of her race, 

Toiled fair or meanly in our place, 

But, yielding to the common lot, 

Lie unrecorded and forgot. 


THE MOUNTAIN HEART’ S-E ASE 


By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting, 

By furrowed glade and dell, 

To feverish men thy calm, sweet face uplifting, 
Thou stayest them to tell 

The delicate thought that cannot find expression, 
For ruder speech too fair, 

That, like thy petals, trembles in possession, 

And scatters on the air. 

The miner pauses in his rugged labor, 

And, leaning on his spade, 

Laughingly calls unto his comrade-neighbor 
To see thy charms displayed. 

But in his eyes a mist unwonted rises, 

And for a moment clear 

Some sweet home face his foolish thought surprises, 
And passes in a tear, — 

Some boyish vision of his Eastern village, 

Of uneventful toil, 

Where golden harvests followed quiet tillage 
Above a peaceful soil. 

One moment only ; for the pick, uplifting, 

Through root and fibre cleaves, 

And on the muddy current slowly drifting 
Are swept by bruised leaves. 


THE MOUNTAIN HEART’S-EASE 


And yet, 0 poet, in thy homely fashion, 
Thy work thou dost fulfill, 

For on the turbid current of his passion 
Thy face is shining still ! 


GRIZZLY. 


Coward, — of heroic size, 

In whose lazy muscles lies 
Strength we fear and yet despise ; 

Savage, — whose relentless tusks 
Are content with acorn husks ; 

Robber, — whose exploits ne’er soared 
O’er the bee’s or squirrel’s hoard ; 
Whiskered chin and feeble nose, 

Claws of steel on baby toes, — 

Here, in solitude and shade, 

Shambling, shuffling plantigrade, 

Be thy courses undismayed ! 

Here, where Nature makes thy bed, 

Let thy rude, half-human tread 
Point to hidden Indian springs, 

Lost in ferns and fragrant grasses, 
Hovered o’er by timid wings, 

Where the wood-duck lightly passes, 
Where the wild bee holds her sweets, — - 
Epicurean retreats, 

Fit for thee, and better than 
Fearful spoils of dangerous man. 

In thy fat-jowled deviltry 
Friar Tuck shall live in thee; 

Thou mayst levy tithe and dole ; 

Thou shalt spread the woodland cheer, 
From the pilgrim taking toll ; 

Match thy cunning with his fear ; 

Eat, and drink, and have thy fill ; 

Yet remain an outlaw still ! 


MADRONO 


Captain of the Western wood, 

Thou that apest Robin Hood ! 

Green above thy scarlet hose, 

How thy velvet mantle shows! 
Never tree like thee arrayed, 

0 thou gallant of the glade ! 

When the fervid August sun 
Scorches all it looks upon, 

And the balsam of the pine 
Drips from stem to needle fine, 
Round thy compact shade arranged, 
Not a leaf of thee is changed ! 

When the yellow autumn sun 
Saddens all it looks upon, 

Spreads its sackcloth on the hills, 
Strews its ashes in the rills, 

Thou thy scarlet hose dost doff, 

And in limbs of purest buff 
Challengest the sombre glade 
For a sylvan masquerade. 

Where, oh, where, shall he begin 
Who would paint thee, Harlequin ? 
With thy waxen burnished leaf, 
With thy branches’ red relief, 

With thy polytinted fruit, — 

In thy spring or autumn suit, — 
Where begin, and oh, where end, 
Thou whose charms all art transcend 


COYOTE 


Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew, 

Half bold and half timid, yet lazy all through ; 

Loath ever to leave, and yet fearful to stay, 

He limps in the clearing, an outcast in gray. 

A shade on the stubble, a ghost by the wall, 

Now leaping, now limping, now risking a fall, 
Lop-eared and large- jointed, but ever alway 
A thoroughly vagabond outcast in gray. 

Here, Carlo, old fellow, — he ? s one of your kind, — 
Go, seek him, and bring him in out of the wind. 
What ! snarling, my Carlo ! So even dogs may 
Deny their own kin in the outcast in gray. 

Well, take what you will, — though it be on the sly, 
Marauding or begging, — I shall not ask why, 

But will call it a dole, just to help on his way 
A four-footed friar in orders of gray ! 


TO A SEA-BIKD 


(SANTA CRUZ, 1869) 

Sauntering hither on listless wings, 

Careless vagabond of the sea, 

Little thou heedest the surf that sings, 

The bar that thunders, the shale that rings, — 
Give me to keep thy company. 

Little thou hast, old friend, that ’s new ; 
Storms and wrecks are old things to thee ; 

Sick am I of these changes, too ; 

Little to care for, little to rue, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

All of thy wanderings, far and near, 

Bring thee at last to shore and me ; 

All of my journey ings end them here : 

This our tether must he our cheer, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 

Lazily rocking on ocean’s breast, 

Something in common, old friend, have we : 

Thou on the shingle seek’st thy nest, 

I to the waters look for rest, — 

I on the shore, and thou on the sea. 


WHAT THE CHIMNEY SANG 


Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Woman stopped, as her babe she tossed, 
And thought of the one she had long since lost, 

And said, as her teardrops hack she forced, 

“I hate the wind in the chimney.” 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Children said, as they closer drew, 

“ ’T is some witch that is cleaving the black night 
through, 

’T is a fairy trumpet that just then blew, 

And we fear the wind in the chimney .” 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

And the Man, as he sat on his hearth below, 

Said to himself, “ It will surely snow, 

And fuel is dear and wages low, 

And I ’ll stop the leak in the chimney.” 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 
And chanted a melody no one knew ; 

But the Poet listened and smiled, for he 
Was Man and Woman and Child, all three, 

And said, “ It is God’s own harmony, 

This wind we hear in the chimney.” 


DICKENS IN CAMP 


• Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting, 

The river sang below ; 

The dim Sierras, far beyond, uplifting 
Their minarets of snow. 

The roaring camp-fire, with rude humor, painted 
The ruddy tints of health 

On haggard face and form that drooped and fainted 
In the fierce race for wealth ; 

Till one arose, and from his pack’s scant treasure 
A hoarded volume drew, 

And cards were dropped from hands of listless leisure 
To hear the tale anew. 

And then, while round them shadows gathered faster, 

And as the firelight fell, 

He read aloud the book wherein the Master 
Had writ of “ Little Nell.” 

Perhaps ’t was boyish fancy, — for the reader 
Was youngest of them all, — 

But, as he read, from clustering pine and cedar 
A silence seemed to fall ; 

The fir-trees, gathering closer in the shadows, 

Listened in every spray, 

While the whole camp with “ Nell ” on English meadows 
Wandered and lost their way. 


210 


MISCELLANEOUS 


And so in mountain solitudes — o’ertaken 
As by some spell divine — 

Their cares dropped from them like the needles shaken 
From out the gusty pine. 

Lost is that camp and wasted all its fire ; 

And he who wrought that spell ? 

Ah ! towering pine and stately Kentish spire, 

Ye have one tale to tell ! 

Lost is that camp, but let its fragrant story 
Blend with the breath that thrills 

With hop-vine’s incense all the pensive glory 
That fills the Kentish hills. 

And on that grave where English oak and holly 
And laurel wreaths entwine, 

Deem it not all a too presumptuous folly, 

This spray of Western pine ! 

July, 1870. 


“TWENTY YEABS ” 


Beg your pardon, old fellow ! I think 
I was dreaming just now when you spoke. 

The fact is, the musical clink 

Of the ice on your wine-goblet’s brink 

A chord of my memory woke. 

And I stood in the pasture-field where 
Twenty summers ago I had stood ; 

And I heard in that sound, I declare, 

The clinking of hells in the air, 

Of the cows coming home from the wood. 

Then the apple-bloom shook on the hill ; 

And the mullein-stalks tilted each lance ; 

And the sun behind Rapalye’s mill 
Was my uttermost West, and could thrill 
Like some fanciful land of romance. 

Then my friend was a hero, and then 
My girl was an angel. In fine, 

I drank buttermilk ; for at ten 
Faith asks less to aid her than when 
At thirty we doubt over wine. 

Ah, well, it does seem that I must 

Have been dreaming just now when you spoke, 

Or lost, very like, in the dust 

Of the years that slow fashioned the crust 

On that bottle whose seal you last broke. 


212 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Twenty years was its age, did you say ? 
Twenty years ? Ah, my friend, it is true ! 
All the dreams that have flown since that day, 
All the hopes in that time passed away, 

Old friend, I *ve been drinking with you ! 








FATE 


“ The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare, 

The spray of the tempest is white in air ; 

The winds are out with the waves at play, 
And I shall not tempt the sea to-day. 

u The trail is narrow, the wood is dim, 

The panther clings to the arching limb ; 

And the lion’s whelps are abroad at play, 
And I shall not join in the chase to-day.” 

But the ship sailed safely over the sea, 

And the hunters came from the chase in glee 
And the town that was builded upon a rock 
Was swallowed up in the earthquake shock. 


GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN 


(MASSACHUSETTS SHORE, 1800) 

I mind it was but yesterday : 

The sun was dim, the air was chill ; 

Below the town, below the hill, 

The sails of my son’s ship did fill, — 

My Jacob, who was cast away. 

He said, “ God keep you, mother dear,” 
But did not turn to kiss his wife ; 

They had some foolish, idle strife ; 

Her tongue was like a two-edged knife, 

And he was proud as any peer. 

Howbeit that night I took no note 
Of sea nor sky, for all was drear ; 

I marked not that the hills looked near, 

Nor that the moon/ though curved and clear, 
Through curd-like scud did drive and float. 

For with my darling went the joy 
Of autumn woods and meadows brown ; 

I came to hate the little town ; 

It seemed as if the sun went down 
With him, my only darling boy. 

It was the middle of the night : 

The wind, it shifted west-by -south, — 

It piled high up the harbor mouth j 


GRANDMOTHER TENTERDEN 


215 


The marshes, black with summer drouth, 

Were all abroad with sea-foam white. 

It was the middle of the night : 

The sea upon the garden leapt, 

And my son’s wife in quiet slept, 

And I, his mother, waked and wept, 

When lo ! there came a sudden light. 

And there he stood ! His seaman’s dress 
All wet and dripping seemed to be ; 

The pale blue fires of the sea 
Dripped from his garments constantly, — 

I could not speak through cowardness. 

“ I come through night and storm,” he said, 
“ Through storm and night and death,” said he, 
u To kiss my wife, if it so be 
That strife still holds ’twixt her and me, 

For all beyond is peace,” he said. 

“ The sea is His, and He who sent 
The wind and wave can soothe their strife ; 
And brief and foolish is our life.” 

He stooped and kissed his sleeping wife, 

Then sighed, and like a dream he went. 

How, when my darling kissed not me, 

But her — his wife — who did not wake, 

My heart within me seemed to break ; 

I swore a vow, nor thenceforth spake 
Of what my clearer eyes did see. 

And when the slow weeks brought Mm not, 
Somehow we spake of aught beside : 


216 


MISCELLANEOUS 


For she — her hope upheld her pride ; 

And I — in me all hope had died, 

And my son passed as if forgot. 

It was about the next springtide : 

She pined and faded where she stood, 

Yet spake no word of ill or good ; 

She had the hard, cold Edwards’ blood 
In all her veins — and so she died. 

One time I thought, before she passed, 

To give her peace ; but ere I spake 
Methought, “ He will be first to break 
The news in heaven,’* and for his sake 
I held mine back until the last. 

And here I sit, nor care to roam ; 

I only wait to hear his call. 

I doubt not that this day next fall 
Shall see me safe in port, where all 
And every ship at last comes home. 

And you have sailed the Spanish Main, 

And knew my Jacob ? . . . Eh ! Mercy ! 

Ah ! God of wisdom ! hath the sea 
Yielded its dead to humble me ? 

My boy ! . . . My Jacob ! . . . Turn again ! 


GUILD’S SIGNAL 


[William Guild was engineer of the train which on the 19th of April, 
1873, plunged into Meadow Brook, on the line of the Stonington and 
Providence -Kailroad. It was his custom, as often as he passed his home, 
to whistle an “ All ’s well ” to his wife. He was found, after the disaster, 
dead, with his hand on the throttle-valve of his engine.] 

Two low whistles, quaint and clear : 

That was the signal the engineer — 

That was the signal that Guild, ’t is said — 

Gave to his wife at Providence, 

As through the sleeping town, and thence, 

Out in the night, 

On to the light, 

Down past the farms, lying white, he sped ! 


As a husband’s greeting, scant, no doubt, 

Yet to the woman looking out, 

Watching and waiting, no serenade, 
Love-song, or midnight roundelay 
Said what that whistle seemed to say : 

“ To my trust true, 

So, love, to you ! 

Working or waiting, good-night ! ” it said. 


Brisk young bagmen, tourists fine, 

Old commuters along the line, 

Brakemen and porters glanced ahead, 
Smiled as the signal, sharp, intense, 

Pierced through the shadows of Providence : 
“ Nothing amiss — 

Nothing ! — it is 

Only Guild calling his wife,” they said. 


218 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Summer and winter the old refrain 
Rang o’er the billows of ripening grain, 

Pierced through the budding boughs o’erhead, 
Flew down the track when the red leaves burned 
Like living coals from the engine spurned i 
Sang as it flew, 

“ To our trust true, 

First of all, duty. Good-night ! 99 it said. 

And then, one night, it was heard no more 
From Stonington over Rhode Island shore, 

And the folk in Providence smiled and said 
As they turned in their beds, “ The engineer 
Has once forgotten his midnight cheer.” 

One only knew, 

To his trust true, 

Guild lay under his engine, dead. 


ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 


(a chemical narrative) 

Certain facts which serve to explain 
The physical charms of Miss Addie De Laine, 

Who, as the common reports obtain, 

Surpassed in complexion the lily and rose ; 

With a very sweet mouth and a retrousse nose ; 

A figure like Hebe’s, or that which revolves 
In a milliner’s window, and partially solves 
That question which mentor and moralist pains, 

If grace may exist minus feeling or brains. 

Of course the young lady had beaux by the score, 

All that she wanted, — what girl could ask more ? 
Lovers that sighed and lovers that swore, 

Lovers that danced and lovers that played, 

Men of profession, of leisure, and trade ; 

But one, who was destined to take the high part 
Of holding that mythical treasure, her heart, — 

This lover, the wonder and envy of town, 

Was a practicing chemist, a fellow called Brown. 

I might here remark that ’t was doubted by many, 

In regard to the heart, if Miss Addie had any ; 

But no one could look in that eloquent face, 

With its exquisite outline and features of grace, 

And mark, through the transparent skin, how the tide 
Ebbed and flowed at the impulse of passion or pride, — 
None could look, who believed in the blood’s circulation 
As argued by Harvey, but saw confirmation 


220 


MISCELLANEOUS 


That here, at least, Nature had triumphed o’er art, 

And as far as complexion went she had a heart. 

But this par parenthesis . Brown was the man 
Preferred of all others to carry her fan, 

Hook her glove, drape her shawl, and do all that a belle 
May demand of the lover she wants to treat well. 

Folks wondered and stared that a fellow called Brown — - 
Abstracted and solemn, in manner a clown, 

111 dressed, with a lingering smell of the shop — 

Should appear as her escort at party or hop. 

Some swore he had cooked up some villainous charm, 

Or love philter, not in the regular Pharm- 
Acopoeia, and thus, from pure malice prepense, 

Had bewitched and bamboozled the young lady’s sense ; 
Others thought, with more reason, the secret to lie 
In a magical wash or indelible dye ; 

While Society, with its censorious eye 
And judgment impartial, stood ready to damn 
What was n’t improper as being a sham. 

For a fortnight the townfolk had all been agog 
With a party, the finest the season had seen, 

To be given in honor of Miss Pollywog, 

Who was just coming out as a belle of sixteen. 

The guests were invited ; but one night before 
A carriage drew up at the modest back door 
Of Brown’s lab’ratory, and, full in the glare 
Of a big purple bottle, some closely veiled fair 
Alighted and entered : to make matters plain, 

Spite of veils and disguises, ’t was Addie De Laine. 

As a bower for true love, ’t was hardly the one 
That a lady would choose to be wooed in or won : 

No odor of rose or sweet jessamine’s sigh 


ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 


221 


Breathed a fragrance to hallow their pledge of troth by, 

Nor the halm that exhales from the odorous thyme ; 

But the gaseous effusions of chloride of lime, 

And salts, which your chemist delights to explain 
As the base of the smell of the rose and the drain. 

Think of this, 0 ye lovers of sweetness ! and know 
What you smell when you snuff up Lubin or Pinaud. 

I pass by the greetings, the transports and bliss, 

Which of course duly followed a meeting like this, 

And come down to business, — for such the intent 
Of the lady who now o’er the crucible leant, 

In the glow of a furnace of carbon and lime, 

Like a fairy called up in the new pantomime, — 

And give but her words, as she coyly looked down 
In reply to the questioning glances of Brown : 

“ I am taking the drops, and am using the paste, 

And the little white powders that had a sweet taste, 

Which you told me would brighten the glance of my eye, 
And the depilatory, and also the dye, 

And I ’m charmed with the trial ; and now, my dear 
Brown, 

I have one other favor, — now, ducky, don’t frown, — 
Only one, for a chemist and genius like you 
But a trifle, and one you can easily do. 

Now listen : to-morrow, you know, is the night 
Of the birthday soiree of that Polly wog fright ; 

And I ’m to be there, and the dress I shall wear 

Is too lovely ; but ” — “ But what then, ma chere ? ” 

Said Brown, as the lady came to a full stop, 

And glanced round the shelves of the little back shop. 

“ Well, I ’want — I want something to fill out the skirt 

To the proper dimensions, without being girt 

In a stiff crinoline, or caged in a hoop 

That shows through one’s skirt like the bars of a coop ; 


222 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Something light, that a lady may waltz in, or polk, 

With a freedom that none but you masculine folk 
Ever know. For, however poor woman aspires, 

She ’s always bound down to the earth by these wires. 
Are you listening ? Nonsense ! don’t stare like a spoon,, 
Idiotic ; some light thing, and spacious, and soon — 
Something like — well, in fact — something like a balloon ! 

Here she paused ; and here Brown, overcome by surprise, 
Gave a doubting assent with still wondering eyes, 

And the lady departed. But just at the door 
Something happened, — ’t is true, it had happened before 
In this sanctum of science, — a sibilant sound, 

Like some element just from its trammels unbound, 

Or two substances that their affinities found. 

The night of the anxiously looked for soiree 
Had come, with its fair ones in gorgeous array ; 

With the rattle of wheels and the tinkle of bells, 

And the “ How do ye do’s ” and the “ Hope you are well’s ; 
And the crush in the passage, and last lingering look 
You give as you hang your best hat on the hook ; 

The rush of hot air as the door opens wide ; 

And your entry, — that blending of self-possessed pride 
And humility shown in your perfect-bred stare 
At the folk, as if wondering how they got there ; 

With other tricks worthy of Vanity Fair. 

Meanwhile, the safe topic, the heat of the room, 

Already was losing its freshness and bloom ; 

Young people were yawning, and wondering when 
The dance would come off, and why did n’t it then : 
When a vague expectation was thrilling the crowd, 

Lo ! the door swung its hinges with utterance proud ! 

And Pompey announced, with a trumpet-like strain, 

The entrance of Brown and Miss Addie De Laine. 


ASPIRING MISS DE LAINE 


223 


She entered ; but oh ! how imperfect the verb 
To express to the senses her movement superb ! 

To say that she “ sailed in ” more clearly might tell 
Her grace in its buoyant and billowy swell. 

Her robe was a vague circumambient space, 

With shadowy boundaries made of point-lace ; 

The rest was but guesswork, and well might defy 
The power of critical feminine eye 
To define or describe : ’t were as futile to try 
The gossamer web of the cirrus to trace, 

Floating far in the blue of a warm summer sky. 

’ Midst the humming of praises and glances of beaux 
That greet our fair maiden wherever she goes, 

Brown slipped like a shadow, grim, silent, and black, 

With a look of anxiety, close in her track. 

Once he whispered aside in her delicate ear 
A sentence of warning, — it might be of fear : 

“ Don’t stand in a draught, if you value your life.” 
(Nothing more, — such advice might be given your 
wife 

Or your sweetheart, in times of bronchitis and cough, 
Without mystery, romance, or frivolous scoff.) 

But hark to the music ; the dance has begun. 

The closely draped windows wide open are flung; 

The notes of the piccolo, joyous and light, 

Like bubbles burst forth on the warm summer night. 

Bound about go the dancers ; in circles they fly ; 

Trip, trip, go their feet as their skirts eddy by ; 

And swifter and lighter, but somewhat too plain, 

Whisks the fair circumvolving Miss Addie De Laine. 

Taglioni and Cerito well might have pined 

For the vigor and ease that her movements combined ; 

E’en Bigelboche never flung higher her robe 
In the naughtiest city that ’s known on the globe. 


224 


MISCELLANEOUS 


’T was amazing, ’t was scandalous ; lost in surprise, 
Some opened their mouths, and a few shut their eyes. 

But hark ! At the moment Miss Addie De Laine, 
Circling round at the outer edge of an ellipse 
Which brought her fair form to the window again, 
From the arms of her partner incautiously slips ! 

And a shriek fills the air, and the music is still, 

And the crowd gather round where her partner forlorn 
Still frenziedly points from the wide window-sill 
Into space and the night ; for Miss Addie was gone ! 
Gone like the bubble that bursts in the sun ; 

Gone like the grain when the reaper is done ; 

Gone like the dew on the fresh morning grass ; 

Gone without parting farewell ; and alas ! 

Gone with a flavor of hydrogen gas ! 

When the weather is pleasant, you frequently meet 
A white-headed man slowly pacing the street ; 

His trembling hand shading his lack-lustre eye, 

Half blind with continually scanning the sky. 

Bum or points him as some astronomical sage, 
Be-perusing by day the celestial page ; 

But the reader, sagacious, will recognize Brown, 

Trying vainly to conjure his lost sweetheart down, 

And learn the stern moral this story must teach, 

That Genius may lift its love out of its reach. 


A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 


Above the bones 
St. Ursula owns, 

And those of the virgins she chaperons ; 

Above the boats, 

And the bridge that floats, 

And the Rhine and the steamers’ smoky throats ; 
Above the chimneys and quaint-tiled roofs, 
Above the clatter of wheels and hoofs ; 

Above Newmarket’s open space, 

Above that consecrated place 
Where the genuine hones of the Magi seen are, 

And the dozen shops of the real Farina ; 

Higher than even old Hohestrasse, 

Whose houses threaten the timid passer, — • 
Above them all, 

Through scaffolds tall, 

And spires like delicate limbs in splinters, 

The great Cologne’s 
Cathedral stones 

Climb through the storms of eight hundred winters. 

Unfinished there, 

In high mid-air 

The towers halt like a broken prayer ; 
Through years belated, 

Unconsummated, 

The hope of its architect quite frustrated. 

Its very youth 
They say, forsooth, 


226 


MISCELLANEOUS 


With a quite improper purpose mated ; 

And every stone 
With a curse of its own 
Instead of that sermon Shakespeare stated, 
Since the day its choir, 

Which all admire, 

By Cologne’s Archbishop was consecrated. 

Ah ! that was a day, 

One well might say, 

To be marked with the largest, whitest stone 
To be found in the towers of all Cologne ! 

Along the Rhine, 

From old Rheinstein, 

The people flowed like their own good wine. 
From Rudesheim, 

And Geisenheim, 

And every spot that is known to rhyme j 
From the famed Cat’s Castle of St. Goarshausen, 
To the pictured roofs of Assmannshausen, 

And down the track, 

From quaint Scliwalbach 
To the clustering tiles of Bacharach ; 

From Bingen, hence 
To old Coblentz : 

From every castellated crag, 

Where the robber chieftains kept their “ swag,” 
The folk flowed in, and Ober-Cassel 
Shone with the pomp of knight and vassal j 
And pouring in from near and far, 

As the Rhine to its bosom draws the Ahr, 
Or takes the arm of the sober Mosel, 

So in Cologne, knight, squire, and losel, 
Choked up the city’s gates with men 
From old St. Stephen to Zint Marjen. 


A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 

What had they come to see ? Ah me ! 

I fear no glitter of pageantry, 

Nor sacred zeal 
For Church’s weal, 

Nor faith in the virgins’ hones to heal ; 

Nor childlike trust in frank confession 
Drew these, who, dyed in deep transgression, 
Still in each nest 
On every crest 

Kept stolen goods in their possession ; 

But only their gout 
For something new, 

More rare than the “ roast ” of a wandering Jew ; 
Or ’ — to he exact — 

To see — in fact — 

A Christian soul, in the very act 
Of being damned, secundum artem , 

By the devil, before a soul could part ’em. 

For a rumor had flown 
Throughout Cologne 

That the church, in fact, was the devil’s own ; 
That its architect 
(Being long u suspect ”) 

Had confessed to the Bishop that he had wrecked 
Not only his own soul, hut had lost 
The very first Christian soul that crossed 
The sacred threshold : and all, in fine, 

For that very beautiful design 
Of the wonderful choir 
They were pleased to admire. 

And really, he must be allowed to say — 

To speak in a purely business way — 

That, taking the ruling market prices 
Of souls and churches, in such a crisis 


MISCELLANEOUS 


It would be shown — - 
And his Grace must own — 

It was really a bargain for Cologne ! 

Such was the tale 
That turned cheeks pale 

With the thought that the enemy might prevail, 

And the church doors snap 
With a thunderclap 

On a Christian soul in that devil’s trap. 

But a wiser few, 

Who thought that they knew 
Cologne’s Archbishop, replied, “ Pooh, pooh ! 

Just watch him and wait, 

And as sure as fate, 

You ’ll find that the Bishop will give checkmate.” 

One here might note 
How the popular vote, 

As shown in all legends and anecdote, 

Declares that a breach 
Of trust to o’erreach 

The devil is something quite proper for each. 

And, really, if you 
Give the devil his due 

In spite of the proverb — it ’s something you ’ll rue. 
But to lie and deceive him, 

To use and to leave him, 

From Job up to Faust is the way to receive him, 
Though no one has heard 
It ever averred 

That the “ Father of Lies ” ever yet broke his word, 
But has left this position, 

In every tradition, 

To be taken alone by the “ truth-loving ” Christian! 


A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 


229 


Bom ! from the tower ! 

It is the hour ! 

The host pours in, in its pomp and power 
Of banners and pyx, 

And high crucifix, 

And crosiers and other processional sticks, 

And no end of Marys 
In quaint reliquaries, 

To gladden the souls of all true antiquaries ; 

And an Osculum Pads 
(A myth to the masses 

Who trusted their bones more to mail and cuirasses) — 
All borne by the throng 
Who are marching along 

To the square of the Dom with processional song, 
With the flaring of dips, 

And bending of hips, 

And the chanting of hundred perfunctory lips ; 

And some good little boys 
Who had come up from Neuss 
And the Quirinuskirche to show off their voice : 

All march to the square 
Of the great Dom, and there 
File right and left, leaving alone and quite bare 
A covered sedan, 

Containing — so ran 

The rumor — the victim to take off the ban. 

They have left it alone, 

They have sprinkled each stone 
Of the porch with a sanctified Eau de Cologne , 
Guaranteed in this case 
To disguise every trace 
Of a sulphurous presence in that sacred place. 

Two Carmelites stand 
On the right and left hand 


230 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Of the covered sedan chair, to wait the command 
Of the prelate to throw 
Up the cover and show 
The form of the victim in terror below. 

There ’s a pause and a prayer, 

Then the signal, and there — 

Is a woman ! — by all that is good and is fair ! 

A woman ! and known 
To them all — one must own 
Too well known to the many, to-day to be shown 
As a martyr, or e’en 
As a Christian ! A queen 
Of pleasance and revel, of glitter and sheen ; 

So bad that the worst 
Of Cologne spake up first, 

And declared ’t was an outrage to suffer one curst, 
And already a fief 
Of the Satanic chief, 

To martyr herself for the Church’s relief. 

But in vain fell their sneer 
On the mob, who I fear 
On the whole felt a strong disposition to cheer. 

A woman ! and there 
She stands in the glare 
Of the pitiless sun and their pitying stare, — 

A woman still young, 

With garments that clung 
To a figure, though wasted with passion and wrung 
With remorse and despair, 

Yet still passing fair, 

With jewels and gold in her dark shining hair, 

And cheeks that are faint 
’Neath her dyes and her paint. 

A woman most surely — but hardly a saint ! 


A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 


281 


She moves. She has gone 
From their pity and scorn ; 

She has mounted alone 
The first step of stone, 

And the high swinging doors she wide open has thrown, 
Then pauses and turns, 

As the altar blaze burns 

On her cheeks, and with one sudden gesture she spurns 
Archbishop and Prior, 

Knight, ladye, and friar, 

And her voice rings out high from the vault of the choir. 

u 0 men of Cologne ! 

What I was ye have known ; 

What I am, as I stand here, One knoweth alone. 

If it be hut His will 
I shall pass from Him still, 

Lost, curst, and degraded, I reckon no ill ; 

If still by that sign 
Of His anger divine 

One soul shall be saved, He hath blessed more than mine. 
0 men of Cologne ! 

Stand forth, if ye own 
A faith like to this, or more fit to atone, 

And take ye my place, 

And God give you grace 

To stand and confront Him, like me, face to face ! ” 

She paused. Yet aloof 
They all stand. No reproof 
Breaks the silence that fills the celestial roof. 

One instant — no more — 

She halts at the door, 

Then enters l ... A flood from the roof to the floor 
Fills the church rosy red. 

She is gone I 


232 


MISCELLANEOUS 


But instead, 

Who is this leaning forward with glorified head 
And hands stretched to save ? 

Sure this is no slave 

Of the Powers of Darkness, with aspect so brave ! 

They, press to the door, 

But too late ! All is o’er. 

Naught remains hut a woman’s form prone on the floor. 
But they still see a trace 
Of that glow in her face 

That they saw in the light of the altar’s high blaze 
On the image that stands 
With the babe in its hands 
Enshrined in the churches of all Christian lands. 

A Te Deum sung, 

A censer high swung, 

With praise, benediction, and incense wide-flung, 
Proclaim that the curse 
Is removed — and no worse 
Is the Dom for the trial — in fact, the reverse ; 

For instead of their losing 
A soul in abusing 

The Evil One’s faith, they gained one of his choosing. 

Thus the legend is told : 

You will find in the old 

Vaulted aisles of the Dom, stiff in marble or cold 
In iron and brass, 

In gown and cuirass, 

The knights, priests, and bishops who came to that Mass 
And high o’er the rest, 

With her babe at her breast, 

The image of Mary Madonna the blest. 


A LEGEND OF COLOGNE 


233 


But you look round in vain, 

On each high pictured pane, 

For the woman most worthy to walk in her train. 

Yet, standing to-day 
O’er the dust and the clay, 

’Midst the ghosts of a life that has long passed away, 
With the slow-sinking sun 
Looking softly upon 

That stained-glass procession, I scarce miss the one 
That it does not reveal, 

For I know and I feel 

That these are but shadows — the woman was real ! 


THE TALE OF A PONY 


Name of my heroine, simply “ Eose ; ” 
Surname, tolerable only in prose ; 

Habitat , Paris, — that is where 
She resided for change of air ; 

JEtat twenty ; complexion fair ; 

Eich, good looking, and debonnaire ; 
Smarter than Jersey lightning. There ! 
That ’s her photograph, done with care. 

In Paris, whatever they do besides, 

Every lady in full dress rides ! 

Moire antiques you never meet 
Sweeping the filth of a dirty street ; 

But every woman’s claim to ton 
Depends upon 

The team she drives, whether phaeton, 
Landau, or britzka. Hence it ’s plain 
That Eose, who was of her toilet vain, 
Should have a team that ought to he 
Equal to any in all Paris ! 

u Bring forth the horse ! ” The commissaire 
Bowed, and brought Miss Eose a pair 
Leading an equipage rich and rare. 

Why doth that lovely lady stare ? 

Why ? The tail of the off gray mare 
Is bobbed, by all that ’s good and fair ! 

Like the shaving-brushes that soldiers wear, 
Scarcely showing as much back hair 


THE TALE OF A PONY 


235 


As Tam O’Shanter’s “ Meg,” — and there, 

Lord knows, she ’d little enough to spare. 

That stare and frown the Frenchman knew, 

But did as well-bred Frenchmen do : 

Raised his shoulders above his crown, 

Joined his thumbs with the fingers down, 

And said, “ Ah, Heaven ! ” — then, “ Mademoiselle, 
Delay one minute, and all is well! ” 

He went — returned ; by what good chance 
These things are managed so well in France 
I cannot say, but he made the sale, 

And the bob-tailed mare had a flowing tail. 

All that is false in this world below 
Betrays itself in a love of show ; 

Indignant Nature hides her lash 
In the purple-black of a dyed mustache ; 

The shallowest fop will trip in French, 

The would-be critic will misquote Trench ; 

In short, you ’re always sure to detect 
A sham in the things folks most affect ; 

Bean-pods are noisiest when dry, 

And you always wink with your weakest eye : 

And that ’s the reason the old gray mare 
Forever had her tail in the air, 

With flourishes beyond compare, 

Though every whisk 
Incurred the risk 

Of leaving that sensitive region bare. 

She did some things that you could n’t but feel 
She would n’t have done had her tail been real. 

Champs Elysees : time, past five. 

There go the carriages, — look alive ! 


236 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Everything that man can drive, 

Or his inventive skill contrive, — 

Yankee buggy or English “ chay,” 

Dog-cart, droschky, and smart coupd, 

A desobligeante quite bulky 
(French idea of a Yankee sulky) ; 

Band in the distance playing a march, 

Footman standing stiff as starch ; 

Savans, lorettes, deputies, Arch- 
Bishops, and there together range 
Sous-lieutenants and cent-gardes (strange 
Way these soldier-chaps make change), 

Mixed with black-eyed Polish dames, 

With unpronounceable awful names ; 

Laces tremble and ribbons flout, 

Coachmen wrangle and gendarmes shout <•— 
Bless us ! what is the row about ? 

Ah ! here comes Busy’s new turnout ! 

Smart ! You bet your life ’t was that ! 

Nifty ! (short for magnificat'). 

Mulberry panels, — heraldic spread, — 

Ebony wheels picked out with red, 

And two gray mares that were thoroughbred : 
No wonder that every dandy’s head 
Was turned by the turnout, — and ’t was said 
That Casko whisky (friend of the Czar), 

A very good whip (as Bussians are), 

Was tied to Bosy’s triumphal car, 

Entranced, the reader will understand, 

By “ ribbons ” that graced her head and hand. 

Alas ! the hour you think would crown 
Your highest wishes should let you down ! 

Or Fate should turn, by your own mischance, 
Your victor’s car to an ambulance, 


THE TALE OF A PONY 


237 


From cloudless heavens her lightnings glance ! 
(And these things happen, even in France.) 
And so Miss Rose, as she trotted by, 

The cynosure of every eye, 

Saw to her horror the off mare shy, 

Flourish her tail so exceedingly high 
That, disregarding the closest tie, 

And without giving a reason why, 

She flung that tail so free and frisky 
Off in the face of Caskowhisky. 

Excuses, blushes, smiles : in fine, 

End of the pony’s tail, and mine ! 


ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES 


(sequoia gigantea) 

Brown foundling of the Western wood, 

Babe of primeval wildernesses ! 

Long on my table thou hast stood 
Encounters strange and rude caresses ; 
Perchance contented with thy lot, 

Surroundings new, and curious faces, 

As though ten centuries were not 
Imprisoned in thy shining cases. 

Thou bring’ st me back the halcyon days 
Of grateful rest, the week of leisure, 

The journey lapped in autumn haze, 

The sweet fatigue that seemed a pleasure, 

The morning ride, the noonday halt, 

The blazing slopes, the red dust rising, 

And then the dim, brown, columned vault, 

With its cool, damp, sepulchral spicing. 

Once more I see the rocking masts 
That scrape the sky, their only tenant 
The jay-bird, that in frolic casts 

From some high yard his broad blue pennant. 
I see the Indian files that keep 
Their places in the dusty heather, 

Their red trunks standing ankle-deep 
In moccasins of rusty leather. 


ON A CONE OF THE BIG TREES 


239 


I see all this, and marvel much 

That thou, sweet woodland waif, art able 
To keep the company of such 

As throng thy friend’s — the poet’s — table : 
The latest spawn the press hath cast, — 

The “ modern Popes,” " the later Byrons,” — 
Why, e’en the best may not outlast 
Thy poor relation — Sempervirens. 

Thy sire saw the light that shone 
On Mohammed’s uplifted crescent, 

On many a royal gilded throne 

And deed forgotten in the present ; 

He saw the age of sacred trees 

And Druid groves and mystic larches ; 

And saw from forest domes like these 
The builder bring his Gothic arches. 

And must thou, foundling, still forego 
Thy heritage and high ambition, 

To lie full lowly and full low, 

Adjusted to thy new condition ? 

Hot hidden in the drifted snows, 

But under ink-drops idly spattered, 

And leaves ephemeral as those 

That on thy woodland tomb were scattered ? 

Yet lie thou there, 0 friend ! and speak 
The moral of thy simple story : 

Though life is all that thou dost seek, 

And age alone thy crown of glory, 

Hot thine the only germs that fail 
The purpose of their high creation, 

If their poor tenements avail 

For worldly show and ostentation. 


LONE MOUNTAIN 


(CEMETERY, SAN FRANCISCO) 

This is that hill of awe 
That Persian Sindhad saw, — 

The mount magnetic; 

And on its seaward face, 

Scattered along its base, 

The wrecks prophetic. 

Here come the argosies 
Blown by each idle breeze, 

To and fro shifting ; 

Yet to the hill of Fate 
All drawing, soon or late, — 

Day by day drifting ; 

Drifting forever here 
Barks that for many a year 

Braved wind and weather ; 
Shallops hut yesterday 
Launched on yon shining bay, — 
Drawn all together. 

This is the end of all : 

Sun thyself by the wall, 

0 poorer Hindbad ! 

Envy not Sindhad’ s fame : 

Here come alike the same 
Hindbad and Sindhad. 


ALHASCHAE 


Here ’s yer toy balloons ! All sizes ! 
Twenty cents for that. It rises 
Jest as quick as that ’ere, Miss, 

Twice as big. Ye see it is 
Some more fancy. Make it square 
Fifty for ’em both. That ’s fair. 

That ’s the sixth I ’ve sold since noon. 
Trade ’s reviving. Just as soon 
As this lot ’s worked off, I ’ll take 
Wholesale figgers. Make or break, — 
That ’s my motto ! Then I ’ll buy 
In some first-class lottery 
One half ticket, numbered right — 

As I dreamed about last night. 

That ’ll fetch it. Don’t tell me ! 

When a man ’s in luck, you see, 

All things help him. Every chance 
Hits him like an avalanche. 

Here ’s your toy balloons, Miss. Eh ? 
You won’t turn your face this way ? 
Mebbe you ’ll be glad some day. 

With that clear ten thousand prize 
This ’yer trade I’ll drop, and rise 
Into wholesale. Ho ! I ’ll take 
Stocks in Wall Street. Make or break, 
That ’s my motto ! With my luck, 
Where ’s the chance of being stuck ? 


242 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Call it sixty thousand, clear, 

Made in Wall Street in one year. 

Sixty thousand ! Umph ! Let ’s see ! 
Bond and mortgage ’ll do for me. 

Good ! That gal that passed me by 

Scornful like — why, mebbe I 

Some day ’ll hold in pawn — why not ? — 

All her father’s prop. She ’ll spot 

What ’s my little game, and see 

What I ’m after ’s her. He ! he ! 

He ! he ! When she comes to sue — 

Let ’s see ! What ’s the thing to do ? 
Kick her ? No ! There ’s the perliss ! 
Sorter throw her off like this. 

Hello ! Stop ! Help ! Murder ! Hey ! 
There ’s my whole stock got away, 

Kiting on the house-tops ! Lost ! 

All a poor man’s fortin ! Cost ? 

Twenty dollars ! Eh ! What ’s this ? 
Fifty cents ! God bless ye, Miss ! 


THE TWO SHIPS 


As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain’s crest, 
Looking over the ultimate sea, 

In the gloom of the mountain a ship lies at rest, 

And one sails away from the lea : 

One spreads its white wings on a far-reaching track, 
With pennant and sheet flowing free ; 

One hides in the shadow with sails laid aback, — 
The ship that is waiting for me ! 

But lo ! in the distance the clouds break away, 

The Gate’s glowing portals I see ; 

And I hear from the outgoing ship in the bay 
The song of the sailors in glee. 

So I think of the luminous footprints that bore 
The comfort o’er dark Galilee, 

And wait for the signal to go to the shore, 

To the ship that is waiting for me. 


ADDRESS 


(OPENING OF THE CALIFORNIA THEATRE, SAN FRAN- 
CISCO, JANUARY 19, 1870) 

Brief words, when actions wait, are well : 

The prompter’s hand is on his hell ; 

The coming heroes, lovers, kings, 

Are idly lounging at the wings ; 

Behind the curtain’s mystic fold 
The glowing future lies unrolled ; 

And yet, one moment for the Past, 

One retrospect, — the first and last. 

“ The world ’s a stage,” the Master said. 

To-night a mightier truth is read : 

Not in the shifting canvas screen, 

The flash of gas or tinsel sheen ; 

Not in the skill whose signal calls 
Erom empty boards baronial halls j 
But, fronting sea and curving bay, 

Behold the players and the play. 

Ah, friends ! beneath your real skies 
The actor’s short-lived triumph dies : 

On that broad stage of empire won, 

Whose footlights were the setting sun, 

Whose flats a distant background rose 
In trackless peaks of endless snows ; 

Here genius bows, and talent waits 
To copy that but One creates. 


ADDRESS 


245 


Your shifting scenes : the league of sand, 

An avenue by ocean spanned ; 

The narrow beach of straggling tents, 

A mile of stately monuments ; 

Your standard, lo ! a flag unfurled, 

Whose clinging folds clasp half the world, — - 
This is your drama, built on facts, 

With “ twenty years between the acts.” 

One moment more : if here we raise 
The oft-sung hymn of local praise, 

Before the curtain facts must sway ; 

Here waits the moral of your play. 

Glassed in the poet’s thought, you view 
What money can, yet cannot do ; 

The faith that soars, the deeds that shine, 
Above the gold that builds the shrine. 

And oh ! when others take our place, 

And Earth’s green curtain hides our face, 

Ere on the stage, so silent now, 

The last new hero makes his bow : 

So may our deeds, recalled once more 
In Memory’s sweet but brief encore, 

Down all the circling ages run, 

With the world’s plaudit of “ Well done ! ” 


DOLLY VAEDEN 


Dear Dolly ! who does not recall 
The thrilling page that pictured all 
Those charms that held our sense in thrall 
Just as the artist caught her, — 

As down that English lane she tripped, 

In bowered chintz, hat sideways tipped, 
Trim-bodiced, bright-eyed, roguish-lipped, — 
The locksmith’s pretty daughter ? 

Sweet fragment of the Master’s art ! 

O simple faith ! 0 rustic heart ! 

O maid that hath no counterpart 
In life’s dry, dog-eared pages ! 

Where shall we find thy like ? Ah, stay ! 
Methinks I saw her yesterday 
In chintz that flowered, as one might say. 
Perennial for ages. 

Her father’s modest cot was stone, 

Five stories high ; in style and tone 
Composite, and, I frankly own, 

Within its walls revealing 
Some certain novel, strange ideas : 

A Gothic door with Homan piers, 

And floors removed some thousand years 
From their Pompeian ceiling. 

The small salon where she received 
Was Louis Quatorze, and relieved 


DOLLY VARDEN 


247 


By Chinese cabinets, conceived 
Grotesquely by the heathen ; 

The sofas were a classic sight, — 

The Roman bench ( sedilia hight) ; 

The chairs were French in gold and white, 

And one Elizabethan. 

And she, the goddess of that shrine, 

Two ringed fingers placed in mine, — 

The stones were many carats fine, 

And of the purest water, — 

Then dropped a curtsy, far enough 
To fairly fill her cretonne puff v 

And show the petticoat’s rich stuff 
That her fond parent bought her. 

Her speech was simple as her dress, — 

Not French the more, but English less, 

She loved ; yet sometimes, I confess, 

I scarce could comprehend her. 

Her manners were quite far from shy : 

There was a quiet in her eye 
Appalling to the Hugh who ’d try 
With rudeness to offend her, 

“ But whence,” I cried, “ this masquerade ? 

Some figure for to-night’s charade, 

A Watteau shepherdess or maid ? ” 

She smiled and begged my pardon : 

“ Why, surely you must know the name, — 

That woman who was Shakespeare’s flame 
Or Byron’s, — well, it ’s all the same : 

Why, Lord ! I ’m Dolly Varden ! ” 


TELEMACHUS VEKSUS MENTOK 

Don’t mind me, I beg you, old fellow, — I ’ll do very well 
here alone ; 

You must not be kept from your “ German ” because I ’ve 
dropped in like a stone. 

Leave all ceremony behind you, leave all thought of aught 
but yourself ; 

And leave, if you like, the Madeira, and a dozen cigars on 
the shelf. 

As for me, you will say to your hostess — well, I scarcely 
need give you a cue. 

Chant my praise ! All will list to Apollo, though Mercury 
pipe to a few. 

Say just what you please, my dear boy; there’s more 
eloquence lies in youth’s rash 

Outspoken heart-impulse than ever growled under this 
grizzling mustache. 

Go, don the dress coat of our tyrant, — youth’s panoplied 
armor for fight, — 

And tie the white neckcloth that rumples, like pleasure, and 
lasts but a night ; 

And pray the Nine Gods to avert you what time the Three 
Sisters shall frown, 

And you ’ll lose your high-comedy figure, and sit more at 
ease in your gown. 


TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR 


249 


He ’s off ! There ’s his foot on the staircase. By Jove, 
what a bound ! Really now 

Did I ever leap like this springald, with Love’s chaplet 
green on my brow ? 

Was I such an ass ? No, I fancy. Indeed, I remember 
quite plain 

A gravity mixed with my transports, a cheerfulness softened 
my pain. 

He ’s gone ! There ’s the slam of his cab door, there ’s the 
clatter of hoofs and the wheels ; 

And while he the light toe is tripping, in this armchair I ’ll 
tilt up my heels. 

He ’s gone, and for what ? For a tremor from a waist like 
a teetotum spun ; 

For a rosebud that ’s crumpled by many before it is gath- 
ered by one. 

Is there naught in the halo of youth but the glow of a 
passionate race — 

’Midst the cheers and applause of a crowd — to the goal of 
a beautiful face ? 

A race that is not to the swift, a prize that no merits en- 
force, 

But is won by some faineant youth, who shall simply walk 
over the course ? 

Poor boy J shall I shock his conceit ? When he talks of 
her cheek’s loveliness, 

Shall I say ’t was the air of the room, and was due to car- 
bonic excess ? 

That when waltzing she drooped on his breast, and the 
veins of her eyelids grew dim, 

’T was oxygen’s absenoe she felt, but never the presence of 
him ? 


250 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Shall I tell him first love is a fraud, a weakling that’s 
strangled in birth, 

Recalled with perfunctory tears, hut lost in unsanctified 
mirth ? 

Or shall I go bid him believe in all womankind’s charm, 
and forget 

In the light ringing laugh of the world the rattlesnake’s 
gay castanet ? 

Shall I tear out a leaf from my heart, from that book that 
forever is shut 

On the past ? Shall I speak of my first love — Augusta — 
my Lalage ? But 

I forget. Was it really Augusta ? No. ’T was Lucy ! 
No. Mary ! No. Di ! 

Never mind ! they were all first and faithless, and yet — 
I’ve forgotten just why. 

No, no ! Let him dream on and ever. Alas ! he will 
waken too soon ; 

And it does n’t look well for October to always be preaching 
at June. 

Poor boy ! All his fond foolish trophies pinned yonder — 
a bow from her hair, 

A few billets-doux , invitations, and — what ’s this ? My 
name, I declare ! 

Humph ! “ You ’ll come, for I ’ve got you a prize, with 

beauty and money no end : 

You know her, I think ; ’t was on dit she once was engaged 
to your friend ; 

But she says that’s all over.” Ah, is it ? Sweet Ethel ! 
incomparable maid ! 

Or — what if tho thing were a trick ? — this letter so freely 
displayed ! — 


TELEMACHUS VERSUS MENTOR 251 

My opportune presence ! No ! nonsense ! Will nobody 
answer the bell ? 

Call a cab ! Half past ten. Not too late yet. Oh, Ethel ! 
Why don’t you go ? Well ? 

“ Master said you would wait ” — Hang your master ! 

“ Have I ever a message to send ? ” 

Yes, tell him I ’ve gone to the German to dance with the 
friend of his friend. 


WHAT THE WOLF REALLY SAID TO LITTLE 
RED RIDING-HOOD 

Wondering maiden, so puzzled and fair, 

Why dost thou murmur and ponder and stare ? 

<( Why are my eyelids so open and wild ? ” 

Only the better to see with, my child ! 

Only the better and clearer to view 
Cheeks that are rosy and eyes that are blue. 

Dost thou still wonder, and ask why these arms 
Fill thy soft bosom with tender alarms, 

Swaying so wickedly ? Are they misplaced 
Clasping or shielding some delicate waist ? 

Hands whose coarse sinews may fill you with fear 
Only the better protect you, my dear ! 

Little Red Riding-Hood, when in the street, 

Why do I press your small hand when we meet ? 
Why, when you timidly offered your cheek, 

Why did I sigh, and why did n’t I speak ? 

Why, well : you see — if the truth must appear — 

I ’m not your grandmother, Riding-Hood, dear 1 


HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER 


“ So she ’s here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you 
met on the train, 

And you really believe she would know you if you were to 
meet her again ? ” 

“ Of course/’ he replied, “ she would know me ; there never 
was womankind yet 

Forgot the effect she inspired. She excuses, but does not 
forget.” 

“ Then you told her your love ? ” asked the elder. The 
younger looked up with a smile : 

“ I sat by her side half an hour — what else was I doing 
the while ? 

“ What, sit by the side of a woman as fair as the sun in the 
sky, 

And look somewhere else lest the dazzle flash back from 
your own to her eye ? 

“No, I hold that the speech of the tongue be as frank and 
as bold as the look, 

And I held up herself to herself, — that was more than she 
got from her book.” 

“ Young blood ! ” laughed the elder ; “ no doubt you are 
voicing the mode of To-Day : 

But then we old fogies at least gave the lady some chance 
for delay. 


254 


MISCELLANEOUS 


(i There ’s my wife (you must know), — we first met on 
the journey from Florence to Rome : 

It took me three weeks to discover who was she and where 
was her home ; 

“ Three more to be duly presented ; three more ere I saw 
her again ; 

And a year ere my romance began where yours ended that 
day on the train.” 

“ Oh, that was the style of the stage-coach ; we travel to-day 
by express ; 

Forty miles to the hour,” he answered, “ won’t admit of a 
passion that ’s less.” 

“ But what if you make a mistake ? ” quoth the elder. The 
younger half sighed. 

“What happens when signals are wrong or switches mis- 
placed ? ” he replied. 

“Very well, I must bow to your wisdom,” the elder re- 
turned, “ but submit 

Your chances of winning this woman your boldness has 
bettered no whit. 

“ Why, you do not at best know her name. And what if I 
try your ideal 

With something, if not quite so fair, at least more en regie 
and real ? 

“ Let me find you a partner. Nay, come, I insist — you 
shall follow — this way. 

My dear, will you not add your grace to entreat Mr. Rapid 
to stay ? 


HALF AN HOUR BEFORE SUPPER 255 

“ My wife, Mr. Eapid — Eh, what ! Why, he ’ s gone — 
yet he said he would come. 

How rude ! I don’t wonder, my dear, you are properly 
crimson and dumb ! ” 


WHAT THE BULLET SANG 

O joy of creation 
To be ! 

0 rapture to fly 

And be free ! 

Be the battle lost or won, 

Though its smoke shall hide the sun, 

1 shall find my love, — the one 

Born for me ! 

I shall know him where he stands, 
All alone, 

With the power in his hands 
Not overthrown ; 

I shall know him by his face, 

By his godlike front and grace ; 

I shall hold him for a space, 

All my own ! 

It is he — 0 my love ! 

So bold ! 

It is I — all thy love 
Foretold ! 

It is I. 0 love ! what bliss ! 

Dost thou answer to my kiss ? 

0 sweetheart ! what is this 

Lieth there so cold ? 


THE OLD CAMP-EIEE 


Now shift the Blanket pad before your saddle hack you 
fling, 

And draw your cinch up tighter till the sweat drops from 
the ring : 

We ’ve a dozen miles to cover ere we reach the next divide. 

Our limbs are stiffer now than when we first set out to ride, 

And worse, the horses know it, and feel the leg-grip tire, 

Since in the days when, long ago, we sought the old camp-fire. 

Yes, twenty years ! Lord ! how we ’d scent its incense 
down the trail, 

Through balm of bay and spice of spruce, when eye and ear 
would fail, 

And worn and faint from useless quest we crept, like this, 
to rest, 

Or, flushed with luck and youthful hope, we rode, like this, 
abreast. 

Ay ! straighten up, old friend, and let the mustang think 
he ’s nigher, 

Through looser rein and stirrup strain, the welcome old 
camp-fire. 

You know the shout that would ring out before us down 
the glade, 

And start the blue jays like a flight of arrows through the 
shade, 

And sift the thin pine needles down like slanting, shining 
rain, 

And send the squirrels scampering hack to their holes again, 


258 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Until we saw, blue-veiled and dim, or leaping like desire, 

That flame of twenty years ago, which lit the old camp- 
fire. 

And then that rest on Nature’s breast, when talk had 
dropped, and slow 

The night wind went from tree to tree with challenge soft 
and low! 

We lay on lazy elbows propped, or stood to stir the flame, 

Till up the soaring redwood’s shaft our shadows danced and 
came, 

As if to draw us with the sparks, high o’er its unseen spire, 

To the five stars that kept their ward above the old camp- 
fire, — 


Those picket stars whose tranquil watch half soothed, half 
shamed our sleep. 

What recked we then what beasts or men around might 
lurk or creep ? 

We lay and heard with listless ears the far-off panther’s cry, 

The near coyote’s snarling snap, the grizzly’s deep-drawn 
sigh, 

The brown bear’s blundering human tread, the gray wolves’ 
yelping choir 

Beyond the magic circle drawn around the old camp-fire. 

And then that morn ! Was ever morn so filled with all 
things new ? 

The light that fell through long brown aisles from out the 
kindling blue, 

The creak and yawn of stretching boughs, the jay-bird’s 
early call, 

The rat-tat-tat of woodpecker that waked the woodland hall, 

The fainter stir of lower life in fern and brake and brier, 

Till flashing leaped the torch of Day from last night’s old 
camp-fire ! 


THE OLD CAMP-FIRE 


259 


Well, well! we’ll see it once again; we should be near it 
now ; 

It ’s scarce a mile to where the trail strikes off to skirt the 
slough, 

And then the dip to Indian Spring, the wooded rise, and — 
strange ! 

Yet here should stand the blasted pine that marked our 
farther range ; 

And here — what ’s this ? A ragged swale of ruts and 
stumps and mire ! 

Sure this is not the sacred grove that hid the old camp-fire ! 

Yet here ’s the “ blaze ” I cut myself, and there ’s the 
stumbling ledge, 

With quartz “ outcrop ” that lay atop, now leveled to its 
edge, 

And mounds of moss-grown stumps beside the woodman’s 
rotting chips, 

And gashes in the hillside, that gape with dumb red lips. 

And yet above the shattered wreck and ruin, curling higher — 

Ah yes ! — still lifts the smoke that marked the welcome 
old camp-fire ! 

Perhaps some friend of twenty years still lingers there to 
raise 

To weary hearts and tired eyes that beacon of old days. 

Perhaps — but stay ; ’t is gone ! and yet once more it lifts 
as though 

To meet our tardy blundering steps, and seems to move, and 
lo! 

Whirls by us in a rush of sound, — the vanished funeral 
pyre 

Of hopes and fears that twenty years burned in the old 
camp-fire ! 


260 MISCELLANEOUS 

For see, beyond the prospect spreads, with chimney, spire, 
and roof, — 

Two iron bands across the trail clank to our mustang’s hoof • 

Above them leap two blackened threads from limb-lopped 
tree to tree, 

To where the whitewashed station speeds its message to the 
sea. 

Eein in ! Eein in ! The quest is o’er. The goal of our 
desire 

Is but the train whose track has lain across the old camp- 
fire ! 


THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIRIE 


An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching, 

A bare, bleak shed in blackest silhouette, 

Twelve years of platform, and before them stretching 
Twelve miles of prairie glimmering through the wet. 

North, south, east, west, — the same dull gray persistence, 
The tattered vapors of a vanished train, 

The narrowing rails that meet to pierce the distance, 

Or break the columns of the far-off rain. 

Naught but myself ; nor form nor figure breaking 
The long hushed level and stark shining waste j 
Nothing that moves to fill the vision aching, 

When the last shadow fled in sullen haste. 

Nothing beyond. Ah yes ! From out the station 
A stiff, gaunt figure thrown against the sky, 

Beckoning me with some wooden salutation 
Caught from his signals as the train flashed by ; 

Yielding me place beside him with dumb gesture 
Born of that reticence of sky and air. 

We sit apart, yet wrapped in that one vesture 
Of silence, sadness, and unspoken care : 

Each following his own thought, — around us darkening 
The rain- washed boundaries and stretching track, — 
Each following those dim parallels and hearkening 
For long-lost voices that will not come back. 


262 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Until, unasked, — I knew not why or wherefore, — 

He yielded, bit by bit, his dreary past, 

Like gathered clouds that seemed to thicken there for 
Some dull down-dropping of their care at last. 

Long had he lived there. As a boy had started 
From the stacked corn the Indian’s painted face ; 

Heard the wolves’ howl the wearying waste that parted 
His father’s hut from the last camping-place. 

Nature had mocked him : thrice had claimed the reaping, 
With scythe of fire, of lands she once had sown ; 

Sent the tornado, round his hearthstone heaping 
Rafters, dead faces that were like his own. 

Then came the War Time. When its shadow beckoned 
He had walked dumbly where the flag had led 
Through swamp and fen, — unknown, unpraised, unreck- 
oned, — 

To famine, fever, and a prison bed. 

Till the storm passed, and the slow tide returning 
Cast him, a wreck, beneath his native sky ; 

Here, at his watch, gave him the chance of earning 
Scant means to live — who won the right to die. 

All this I heard — or seemed to hear — half blending 
With the low murmur of the coming breeze, 

The call of some lost bird, and the unending 
And tireless sobbing of those grassy seas. 

Until at last the spell of desolation 
Broke with a trembling star and far-off cry. 

The coming train ! I glanced around the station. 

All was as empty as the upper sky ! 


THE STATION-MASTER OF LONE PRAIRIE 


263 


Naught but myself ; nor form nor figure waking 
The long hushed level and stark shining waste ; 

Naught but myself, that cry, and the dull shaking 
Of wheel and axle, stopped in breathless haste ! 

“ Now, then — look sharp ! Eh, what ? The Station- 
Master ? 

Thar ’ s none ! We stopped here of our own accord. 

The man got killed in that down-train disaster 
This time last evening. Eight there ! All aboard ! ” 


THE MISSION BELLS OF MONTEKEY 


O bells that rang, 0 bells that sang 
Above the martyrs’ wilderness, 

Till from that reddened coast-line sprang 
The Gospel seed to cheer and bless, 

What are your garnered sheaves to-day ? 

0 Mission bells ! Eleison hells ! 

0 Mission bells of Monterey ! 

0 bells that crash, 0 bells that clash 
Above the chimney-crowded plain, 

On -wall and tower your voices dash, 

But never with the old refrain ; 

In mart and temple gone astray ! 

Ye dangle bells ! Ye jangle bells ! 

Ye wrangle bells of Monterey ! 

O bells that die, so far, so nigh, 

Come back once more across the sea ; 

Not with the zealot’s furious cry, 

Not with the creed’s austerity ; 

Come with His love alone to stay, 

0 Mission bells ! Eleison bells ! 

0 Mission bells of Monterey ! 

Note. This poem was set to music by Monsieur Charles Gounod. 


“ CEOTALUS” 


(rattlesnake bar, sierras) 

No life in earth, or air, or sky; 

The sunbeams, broken silently, 

On the bared rocks around me lie, — 

Cold rocks with half-warmed lichens scarred, 
And scales of moss ; and scarce a yard 
Away, one long strip, yellow-barred. 

Lost in a cleft ! ’T is but a stride 
To reach it, thrust its roots aside, 

And lift it on thy stick astride ! 

Yet stay ! That moment is thy grace ! 

For round thee, thrilling air and space, 

A chattering terror fills the place ! 

A sound as of dry bones that stir 
In the Dead Valley ! By yon fir 
The locust stops its noonday whir ! 

The wild bird hears ; smote with the sound, 
As if by bullet brought to ground, 

On broken wing, dips, wheeling round ! 

The hare, transfixed, with trembling lip, 
Halts, breathless, on pulsating hip, 

And palsied tread, and heels that slip. 


266 


MISCELLANEOUS 


Enough, old friend ! — ’t is thou. Forget 
My heedless foot, nor longer fret 
The peace with thy grim castanet ! 

I know thee ! Yes ! Thou mayst forego 
That lifted crest ; the measured blow 
Beyond which thy pride scorns to go, 

Or yet retract ! For me no spell 

Lights those slit orbs, where, some think, dwell 

Machicolated fires of hell ! 

I only know thee humble, hold, 

Haughty, with miseries untold, 

And the old Curse that left thee cold, 

And drove thee ever to the sun, 

On blistering rocks ; nor made thee shun 
Our cabin’s hearth, when day was done, 

And the spent ashes warmed thee best ; 

We knew thee, — silent, joyless guest 
Of our rude ingle. E’en thy quest 

Of the rare milk-howl seemed to be 
Naught hut a brother’s poverty, 

And Spartan taste that kept thee free 

From lust and rapine. Thou ! whose fame 
Searchest the grass with tongue of flame, 
Making all creatures seem thy game ; 

When the whole woods before thee run, 

Asked but — when all was said and done — 

To lie, untrodden, in the sun ! 


V. PARODIES 


BEFORE THE CURTAIN 

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize, 

A trifle shabby in the upturned blaze 
Of flaring gas and curious eyes that gaze. 

The stage, methinks, perhaps is none too wide, 
And hardly fit for royal Richard’s stride, 

Or Falstaff’s bulk, or Denmark’s youthful pride. 

Ah, well ! no passion walks its humble hoards ; 
O’er it no king nor valiant Hector lords : 

The simplest skill is all its space affords. 

The song and jest, the dance and trifling play, 
The local hit at follies of the day, 

The trick to pass an idle hour away, — 

For these no trumpets that announce the Moor, 
No blast that makes the hero’s welcome sure, — 
A single fiddle in the overture ! 


TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL 1 

(a geological address) 

“ Speak, O man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil ! 
Primal pioneer of pliocene formation, 

Hid in lowest drifts below the earliest stratum 
Of volcanic tufa ! 

" Older than the beasts, the oldest Palaeotherium ; 

Older than the trees, the oldest Cryptogami ; 

Older than the hills, those infantile eruptions 
Of earth’s epidermis ! 

“ Eo — Mio — Plio — whatsoe’er the f cene ’ was 
That those vacant sockets filled with awe and wonder, ■ 
Whether shores Devonian or Silurian beaches, — 

Tell us thy strange story ! 

u Or has the professor slightly antedated 
By some thousand years thy advent on this planet, 
Giving thee an air that ’s somewhat better fitted 
For cold-blooded creatures ? 

a Wert thou true spectator of that mighty forest 
When above thy head the stately Sigillaria 
Reared its columned trunks in that remote and distant 
Carboniferous epoch ? 

1 See page 315. 


TO THE PLIOCENE SKULL 


269 


“ Tell us of that scene, — the dim and watery woodland, 
Songless, silent, hushed, with never bird or insect, 

Veiled with spreading fronds and screened with tall club- 
m^eses, 

Lycopodiacea, — 

u When beside thee walked the solemn Plesiosaurus, 

And around thee crept the festive Ichthyosaurus, 

While from time to time above thee flew and circled 
Cheerful Pterodactyls. 

“ Tell us of thy food, — those half -marine refections, 
Crinoids on the shell and Brachipods au naturel , — 
Cuttlefish to which the jpieuvre of Victor Hugo 
Seems a periwinkle. 

“ Speak, thou awful vestige of the earth’s creation, 

Solitary fragment of remains organic ! 

Tell the wondrous secret of thy past existence, — 

Speak ! thou oldest primate ! ” 

Even as I gazed, a thrill of the maxilla, 

And a lateral movement of the condyloid process, 

With post-pliocene sounds of healthy mastication, 
Ground the teeth together. 

And from that imperfect dental exhibition, 

Stained with express juices of the weed nicotian, 

Came these hollow accents, blent with softer murmurs 
Of expectoration : 

“ Which my name is Bowers, and my crust was busted 
Falling down a shaft in Calaveras County ; 

But I ’d take it kindly if you ’d send the pieces 
Home to old Missouri ! ” 


THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 


LEGEND OF THE CLIFF HOUSE, SAN FRANCISCO) 

Where the sturdy ocean breeze 
Drives the spray of roaring seas, 

That the Cliff House balconies 

Overlook : 

There, in spite of rain that balked, 

With his sandals duly chalked, 

Once upon a tight-rope walked 

Mr. Cooke. 

But the jester’s lightsome mien, 

And his spangles and his sheen, 

All had vanished when the scene 

He forsook. 

Yet in some delusive hope, 

In some vague desire to cope, 

One still came to view the rope 

Walked by Cooke. 


Amid Beauty’s bright array, 

On that strange eventful day, 

Partly hidden from the spray, 

In a nook, 

Stood Florinda Yere de Yere ; 

Who, with wind-disheveled hair, 

And a rapt, distracted air, 

Gazed on Cooke. 


THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 


271 


Then she turned, and quickly cried 
To her lover at her side, 

While her form with love and pride 

Wildly shook : 

61 Clifford Snook ! oh, hear me now ! 

Here I break each plighted vow ; 

There ’s but one to whom I bow, 

And that ’s Cooke ! ” 

Haughtily that young man spoke : 

“ I descend from noble folk ; 

‘ Seven Oaks/ and then 1 Se’nnoak/ 

Lastly ‘ Snook/ 

Is the way my name I trace. 

Shall a youth of noble race 
In affairs of love give place 

To a Cooke ? ” 

“ Clifford Snook, I know thy claim 
To that lineage and name, 

And I think I ’ve read the same 

In Horne Tooke ; 
But I swear, by all divine, 

Never, never, to be thine, 

Till thou canst upon yon line 

Walk like Cooke.” 

Though to that gymnastic feat 
He no closer might compete 
Than to strike a balance - sheet 

In a book ; 

Yet thenceforward from that day 
He his figure would display 
In some wild athletic way, 

After Cooke. 


272 


PARODIES 


On some household eminence, 

On a clothes-line or a fence, 

Over ditches, drains, and thence 

O’er a brook, 

He, by high ambition led, 

Ever walked and balanced, 

Till the people, wondering, said, 

“ How like Cooke ! ” 

Step by step did he proceed, 

Nerved by valor, not by greed, 

And at last the crowning deed 

Undertook. 

Misty was the midnight air, 

And the cliff was bleak and bare, 

When he came to do and dare, 

Just like Cooke. 

Through the darkness, o’er the flow, 

Stretched the line where he should go, 
Straight across as flies the crow 

Or the rook. 

One wild glance around he cast ; 

Then he faced the ocean blast, 

And he strode the cable last 

Touched by Cooke. 

Vainly roared the angry seas, 

Vainly blew the ocean breeze ; 

But, alas ! the walker’s knees 

Had a crook $ 

And before he reached the rock 
Did they both together knock, 

And he stumbled with a shock — 

Unlike Cooke ! 


THE BALLAD OF MR. COOKE 


273 


Downward dropping in the dark, 

Like an arrow to its mark, 

Or a fish-pole when a shark 

Bites the hook, 

Dropped the pole he could not save, 
Dropped the walker, and the wave 
Swift engulfed the rival brave 

Of J. Cooke ! 

Came a roar across the sea 
Of sea-lions in their glee, 

In a tongue remarkably 

Like Chinook; 

And the maddened sea-gull seemed 
Still to utter, as he screamed, 

“ Perish thus the wretch who deemed 

Himself Cooke ! 99 

But on misty moonlit nights 
Comes a skeleton in tights, 

Walks once more the giddy heights 
He mistook; 

And unseen to mortal eyes, 

Purged of grosser earthly ties, 

How at last in spirit guise 

Outdoes Cooke. 

Still the sturdy ocean breeze 
Sweeps the spray of roaring seas, 

Where the Cliff House balconies 
Overlook ; 

And the maidens in their prime, 

Reading of this mournful rhyme, 

Weep where, in the olden time, 

Walked J. Cooke. 


THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU 


Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green — 
So charming and rurally true — 

A singular bird, with a manner absurd, 

Which they call the Australian Emeu ? 

Have you 

Ever seen this Australian Emeu ? 

It trots all around with its head on the ground, 

Or erects it quite out of your view ; 

And the ladies all cry, when its figure they spy, 

“ Oh ! what a sweet pretty Emeu ! 

Oh! do 

Just look at that lovely Emeu ! ” 

One day to this spot, when the weather was hot, 
Came Matilda Hortense Fortescue ; 

And beside her there came a youth of high name, — 
Augustus Florell Montague: 

The two 

Both loved that wild, foreign Emeu. 

With two loaves of bread then they fed it, instead 
Of the flesh of the white Cockatoo, 

Which once was its food in that wild neighborhood 
Where ranges the sweet Kangaroo, 

That too 

Is game for the famous Emeu ! 

Old saws and gimlets but its appetite whets, 

Like the world-famous bark of Peru j 


THE BALLAD OF THE EMEU 


275 


There ’s nothing so hard that the bird will discard, 
And nothing its taste will eschew 

That you 

Can give that long-legged Emeu ! 

The time slipped away in this innocent play, 

When up jumped the bold Montague : 
u Where 9 s that specimen pin that I gayly did win 
In raffle, and gave unto you, 

Fortescue ? 99 

No word spoke the guilty Emeu ! 

“ Quick ! tell me his name whom thou gavest that same, 
Ere these hands in thy blood I imbrue ! ” 

“ Nay, dearest,” she cried, as she clung to his side, 

“ I ’m innocent as that Emeu ! ” 

" Adieu ! ” 

He replied, “ Miss M. H. Fortescue ! ” 

Down she dropped at his feet, all as white as a sheet, 
As wildly he fled from her view ; 

He thought ’t was her sin, — for he knew not the pin 
Had been gobbled up by the Emeu ; 

All through 


The voracity of that Emeu ! 


MRS. JUDGE JENKINS 


(being THE ONLY GENUINE SEQUEL TO u MAUD MUL- 
LER ”) 

Maud Muller all that summer day 
Raked the meadow sweet with hay ; 

Yet, looking down the distant lane, 

She hoped the Judge would come again. 

But when he came, with smile and how, 

Maud only blushed, and stammered, “ Ha-ow ? n 

And spoke of her “ pa,” and wondered whether 
He ’d give consent they should wed together. 

Old Muller hurst in tears, and then 

Begged that the Judge would lend him “ten;” 

For trade was dull, and wages low, 

And the “ craps,” this year, were somewhat slow. 

And ere the languid summer died, 

Sweet Maud became the Judge’s bride. 

But on the day that they were mated, 

Maud’s brother Bob was intoxicated ; 

And Maud’s relations, twelve in all, 

Were very drunk at the Judge’s hall 


MRS. JUDGE JENKINS 


277 


And when the summer came again, 

The young bride bore him babies twain ; 

And the Judge was blest, but thought it strange 
That bearing children made such a change ; 

For Maud grew broad and red and stout, 

And the waist that his arm once clasped about 

Was more than he now could span ; and he 
Sighed as he pondered, ruefully, 

How that which in Maud was native grace 
In Mrs. Jenkins was out of place ; 

And thought of the twins, and wished that they 
Looked less like the men who raked the hay 

On Muller’s farm, and dreamed with pain 
Of the day he wandered down the lane. 

And looking down that dreary track, 

He half regretted that he came back ; 

For, had he waited, he might have wed 
Some maiden fair and thoroughbred j 

For there he women fair as she, 

Whose verbs and nouns do more agree. 

Alas for maiden ! alas for judge ! 

And the sentimental, — that ’s one-half u fudge ; 99 

For Maud soon thought the Judge a bore, 

With all his learning and all his lore ; 


278 


PARODIES 


And the Judge would have bartered Maud’s fair face 
For more refinement and social grace. 

If, of all words of tongue and pen, 

The saddest are, “ It might have been,” 

More sad are these we daily see : 

“ It is, but had n’t ought to be.” 


A GEOLOGICAL MADEIGAL 


I have found out a gift for my fair ; 

I know where the fossils abound, 

Where the footprints of Aves declare 

The birds that once walked on the ground. 
Oh, come, and — in technical speech — 

We ’ll walk this Devonian shore, 

Or on some Silurian beach 

We ’ll wander, my love, evermore. 

I will show thee the sinuous track 
By the slow-moving Annelid made, 

Or the Trilobite that, farther back, 

In the old Potsdam sandstone was laid ; 
Thou shalt see, in his Jurassic tomb, 

The Plesiosaurus embalmed ; 

In his Oolitic prime and his bloom, 
Iguanodon safe and unharmed. 

You wished — I remember it well, 

And I loved you the more for that wish •— 
For a perfect cystedian shell 
And a whole holocephalic fish. 

And oh, if Earth’s strata contains 
In its lowest Silurian drift, 

Or palaeozoic remains 

The same, ’t is your lover’s free gift I 

Then come, love, and never say nay, 

But calm all your maidenly fears ; 


280 


PARODIES 

We ’ll note, love, in one summer’s day 
The record of millions of years ; 
And though the Darwinian plan 
Your sensitive feelings may shock, 
We ’ll find the beginning of man, 

Our fossil ancestors, in rock ! 


AVITOR 


(an aerial retrospect) 

What was it filled my youthful dreams, 
In place of Greek or Latin themes, 

Or beauty’s wild, bewildering beams ? 

Avitor ! 

What visions and celestial scenes 
I filled with aerial machines, 
Montgolfier’s and Mr. Green’s ! 

Avitor ! 

What fairy tales seemed things of course 
The roc that brought Sindbad across, 

The Calendar’s own winged horse ! 

Avitor ! 

How many things I took for facts, — 
Icarus and his conduct lax, 

And how he sealed his fate with wax ! 

Avitor ! 

The first balloons I sought to sail, 
Soap-bubbles fair, but all too frail, 

Or kites, — but thereby hangs a tail. 

Avitor ! 

What made me launch from attic tall 
A kitten and a parasol, 

And watch their bitter, frightful fall ? 

Avitor ! 


282 


PARODIES 


What youthful dreams of high renown 
Bade me inflate the parson’s gown, 

That went not up, nor yet came down ? 

Avitor ! 

My first ascent I may not tell ; 

Enough to know that in that well 
My first high aspirations fell. 

Avitor ! 

My other failures let me pass : 

The dire explosions, and, alas ! 

The friends I choked with noxious gas. 

Avitor ! 

For lo ! I see perfected rise 
The vision of my boyish eyes, 

The messenger of upper skies. 

Avitor ! 


THE WILLOWS 


(after EDGAR ALLAN POE) 

The skies they were ashen and sober, 

The streets they were dirty and drear; 

It was night in the month of October, 

Of my most immemorial year. 

Like the skies, I was perfectly sober, 

As I stopped at the mansion of Shear, — 

At the Nightingale, — perfectly sober, 

And the willowy woodland down here. 

Here, once in an alley Titanic 

Of Ten-pins, I roamed with my soul, — 

Of Ten-pins, with Mary, my soul ; 

They were days when my heart was volcanic, 
And impelled me to frequently roll, 

And made me resistlessly roll, 

Till my ten-strikes created a panic 
In the realms of the Boreal pole, — 

Till my ten-strikes created a panic 
With the monkey atop of his pole. 

I repeat, I was perfectly sober, 

But my thoughts they were palsied and sear, 
My thoughts were decidedly queer ; 

For I knew not the month was October, 

And I marked not the night of the year ; 

I forgot that sweet morceau of Auber 
That the band oft performed down here, 


284 


PARODIES 


And I mixed the sweet music of Auber 
With the Nightingale’s music by Shear. 

And now as the night was senescent, 

And star-dials pointed to morn, 

And car-drivers hinted of morn, 

At the end of the path a liquescent 
And bibulous lustre was born ; 

’T was made by the bar-keeper present, 

Who mixed a duplicate horn, — 

His two hands describing a crescent 
Distinct with a duplicate horn. 

And I said : u This looks perfectly regal, 
For it ’s warm, and I know I feel dry, — 
I am confident that I feel dry. 

We have come past the emeu and eagle, 
And watched the gay monkey on high ; 

Let us drink to the emeu and eagle, 

To the swan and the, monkey on high, — • 
To the eagle and monkey on high ; 

For this bar-keeper will not inveigle, 

Bully hoy with the vitreous eye, — 

He surely would never inveigle, 

Sweet youth with the crystalline eye.” 

But Mary, uplifting her finger, 

Said : “ Sadly this bar I mistrust, — 

I fear that this bar does not trust. 

Oh, hasten ! oh, let us not linger ! 

Oh, fly, — let us fly, — ere we must ! ” 

In terror she cried, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in fhe dust ; 

In agony sobbed, letting sink her 
Parasol till it trailed in the dust, — 

Till it sorrowfully trailed in the dust. 


THE WILLOWS 


285 


Then I pacified Mary and kissed her, 

And tempted her into the room, 

And conquered her scruples and gloom ; 

And we passed to the end of the vista, 

But were stopped by the warning of doom, — 
By some words that were warning of doom. 

And I said, “ What is written, sweet sister, 

At the opposite end of the room ? ” 

She sobbed, as she answered, “All liquors 
Must he paid for ere leaving the room.” 

Then my heart it grew ashen and sober, 

As the streets were deserted and drear, 

For my pockets were empty and drear ; 

And I cried : “ It was surely October, 

On this very night of last year, 

That I journeyed, I journeyed down here, — 
That I brought a fair maiden down here, 

On this night of all nights in the year ! 

Ah ! to me that inscription is clear ; 

Well I know now, I J m perfectly sober, 

Why no longer they credit me here, — 

Well I know now that music of Auber, 

And this Nightingale, kept by one Shear.” 


NORTH BEACH 


(after spenser) 

Lo ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 
Its sullen shadow on the rolling tide, — 

No more the home where joy and wealth repose, 

But now where wassailers in cells abide ; 

See yon long quay that stretches far and wide, 

Well known to citizens as wharf of Meiggs : 

There each sweet Sabbath walks in maiden pride 
The pensive Margaret, and brave Pat, w T hose legs 
Encased in broadcloth oft keep time with Peg’s. 

Here cometh oft the tender nursery-maid, 

While in her ear her love his tale doth pour ; 
Meantime her infant doth her charge evade, 

And rambleth sagely on the sandy shore, 

Till the sly sea-crab, low in ambush laid, 

Seizeth his leg and biteth him full sore. 

Ah me ! what sounds the shuddering echoes bore 
When his small treble mixed with Ocean’s roar ! 

Hard by there stands an ancient hostelrie, 

And at its side a garden, where the bear, 

The stealthy catamount, and coon agree 
To work deceit on all who gather there ; 

And when Augusta — that unconscious fair — 

With nuts and apples plieth Bruin free, 

Lo ! the green parrot claweth her back hair, 

And the gray monkey grabbeth fruits that she 
On her gay bonnet wears, and laugheth loud in glee ! 


THE LOST TAILS OF MILETUS 


High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of 
clover, 

Thyme, and the asphodel blooms, and lulled by Pactolian 
streamlet, 

She of Miletus lay, and beside her an aged satyr 

Scratched his ear with his hoof, and playfully mumbled his 
chestnuts. 

Vainly the Maenid and the Bassarid gamboled about her, 

The free-eyed Bacchante sang, and Pan — the renowned, 
the accomplished — 

Executed his difficult solo. In vain were their gambols 
and dances ; 

High o’er the Thracian hills rose the voice of the shep- 
herdess, wailing : 

“ Ai ! for the fleecy flocks, the meek-nosed, the passionless 
faces ; 

Ai ! for the tallow-scented, the straight-tailed, the high- 
stepping ; 

Ai ! for the timid glance, which is that which the rustic, 
sagacious, 

Applies to him who loves but may not declare his passion ! ” 

Her then Zeus answered slow : “ 0 daughter of song and 
sorrow, 

Hapless tender of sheep, arise from thy long lamentation ! 

Since thou canst not trust fate, nor behave as becomes 
a Greek maiden, 

Look and behold thy sheep.” And lo ! they returned to 
her tailless ! 


THE RITUALIST 


(by a communicant of “ st. james’s ”) 

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met ; 

A stole and snowy alb likewise, — I recollect it yet. 

He called me “ daughter,” as he raised his jeweled hand to 
bless ; 

And then, in thrilling undertones, he asked, “ Would I con- 
fess ? ” 

0 mother dear ! blame not your child, if then on bended 

knees 

1 dropped, and thought of Abelard, and also Eloise ; 

Or when, beside the altar high, he bowed before the pyx, 

I envied that seraphic kiss he gave the crucifix. 

The cruel world may think it wrong, perhaps' may deem me 
weak, 

And, speaking of that sainted man, may call his conduct 
“ cheek ; ” 

And, like that wicked barrister whom Cousin Harry quotes, 

May term his mixed chalice “ grog,” his vestments “ petti- 
coats ; ” 

But, whatsoe’er they do or say, I ’ll build a Christian’s hope 

On incense and on altar-lights, on chasuble and cope. 

Let others prove, by precedent, the faith that they profess : 

“ His can’t he wrong ” that ’s symbolized by such becoming 
dress. 


A MORAL VINDICATOR 


If Mr. Jones, Lycurgus B., 

Had one peculiar quality, 

5 T was his severe advocacy 
Of conjugal fidelity. 

His views of heaven were very free; 
His views of life were painfully 
Ridiculous ; but fervently 
He dwelt on marriage sanctity* 

He frequently -went on a spree ; 

But in his wildest revelry, 

On this especial subject he 
Betrayed no ambiguity. 

And though at times Lycurgus B. 

Did lay his hands not lovingly 
Upon his wife, the sanctity 
Of wedlock was his guaranty. 

But Mrs. Jones declined to see 
Affairs in the same light as he, 

And quietly got a decree 
Divorcing her from that L. B. 

And what did Jones, Lycurgus B., 
With his known idiosyncrasy ? 

He smiled, — a bitter smile to see, — 
And drew the weapon of Bowie. 


290 


PARODIES 


He did what Sickles did to Key, — 
What Cole on Hiscock wrought, did he ; 
In fact, on persons twenty-three 
He proved the marriage sanctity. 

The counselor who took the fee, 

The witnesses and referee, 

The judge who granted the decree, 

Died in that wholesale butchery. 

And then when Jones, Lycurgus B., 
Had wiped the weapon of Bowie, 

Twelve jurymen did instantly 
Acquit and set Lycurgus free. 


CALIFORNIA MADRIGAL 

(on the approach of spring) 

Oh, come, my beloved, from thy winter abode, 

From thy home on the Yuba, thy ranch overflowed ; 
For the waters have fallen, the winter has fled, 

And the river once more has returned to its bed. 

Oh, mark how the spring in its beauty is near ! 

How the fences and tules once more reappear ! 

How soft lies the mud on the banks of yon slough 
By the hole in the levee the waters broke through f 

All nature, dear Chloris, is blooming to greet 
The glance of your eye and the tread of your feet ; 

For the trails are all open, the roads are all free, 

And the highwayman’s whistle is heard on the lea. 

Again swings the lash on the high mountain trail, 

And the pipe of the packer is scenting the gale ; 

The oath and the jest ringing high o’er the plain, 
Where the smut is not always confined to the grain. 

Once more glares the sunlight on awning and roof, 
Once more the red clay ’s pulverized by the hoof, 

Once more the dust powders the “ outsides ” with red, 
Once more at the station the whiskey is spread. 

Then fly with me, love, ere the summer ’s begun, 

And the mercury mounts to one hundred and one ; 

Ere the grass now so green shall be withered and sear, 
In the spring that obtains but one month in the year. 


WHAT THE ENGINES SAID 


(opening of the pacific railroad) 

What was it the Engines said, 

Pilots touching, — head to head 
Facing on the single track, 

Half a world behind each back ? 

This is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread. 

With a prefatory screech, 

In a florid Western speech, 

Said the Engine from the West : 

(i I am from Sierra’s crest ; 

And if altitude ’s a test, 

Why, I reckon, it’s confessed 
That I ’ve done my level best.” 

Said the Engine from the East : 
u They who work best talk the least. 

S’pose you whistle down your brakes ; 
What you ’ve done is no great shakes, — 
Pretty fair, — hut let our meeting 
Be a different kind of greeting. 

Let these folks with champagne stuffing, 
Not their Engines, do the puffing* 

u Listen ! Where Atlantic beats 
Shores of snow and summer heats ; 
Where the Indian autumn skies 
Paint the woods with wampum dyes, — 


WHAT THE ENGINES SAID 


293 


I have chased the flying sun, 

Seeing all he looked upon, 

Blessing all that he has blessed, 
Nursing in my iron breast 
All his vivifying heat, 

All his clouds about my crest ; 

And before my flying feet 
Every shadow must retreat.” 

Said the Western Engine, “ Phew ! ” 
And a long, low whistle blew. 

6i Come, now, really that ’s the oddest 
Talk for one so very modest. 

You brag of your East ! You do ? 
Why, I bring the East to you ! 

All the Orient, all Cathay, 

Eind through me the shortest way $ 
And the sun you follow here 
Rises in my hemisphere. 

Really, — if one must he rude, — 
Length, my friend, ain’t longitude.” 

Said the Union : " Don’t reflect, or 
I ’ll run over some Director.” 

Said the Central : “ I ’m Pacific ; 

But, when riled, I ’m quite terrific. 
Yet to-day we shall not quarrel, 

Just to show these folks this moral, 
How two Engines — in their vision — • 
Once have met without collision.” 

That is what the Engines said, 
Unreported and unread ; 

Spoken slightly through the nose, 
With a whistle at the close. 


THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE 


Beetling walls with ivy grown, 
Frowning heights of mossy stone ; 
Turret, with its flaunting flag 
Flung from battlemented crag ; 
Dungeon-keep and fortalice 
Looking down a precipice 
O’er the darkly glancing wave 
By the Lurline-haunted cave ; 

Robber haunt and maiden bower, 
Home of Love and Crime and Power, 
That ’s the scenery, in fine, 

Of the Legends of the Rhine. 

One hold baron, double-dyed 
Bigamist and parricide, 

And, as most the stories run, 

Partner of the Evil One ; 

Injured innocence in white, 

Fair but idiotic quite, 

Wringing of her lily hands ; 

Valor fresh from Paynim lands, 

Abbot ruddy, hermit pale, 

Minstrel fraught with many a tale, — 
Are the actors that combine 
In the Legends of the Rhine. 

Bell-mouthed flagons round a board ; 
Suits of armor, shield, and sword ; 
Kerchief with its bloody stain ; 
Ghosts of the untimely slain ; 



Frowning heights of mossy stone.” Page 286. 










THE LEGENDS OF THE RHINE 


295 


Thunder-clap and clanking chain ; 
Headsman’s block and shining axe ; 
Thumb-screw, crucifixes, racks ; 
Midnight-tolling chapel hell, 

Heard across the gloomy fell, — 
These and other pleasant facts 
Are the properties that shine 
In the Legends of the Ehine. 

Maledictions, whispered vows 
Underneath the linden houghs ; 
Murder, bigamy, and theft; 
Travelers of goods bereft ; 

Eapine, pillage, arson, spoil, — 
Everything but honest toil, 

Are the deeds that best define 
Every Legend of the Ehine. 

That Virtue always meets reward, 
But quicker when it wears a sword 5 
That Providence has special care 
Of gallant knight and lady fair ; 
That villains, as a thing of course, 
Are always haunted by remorse, — 
Is the moral, I opine, 

Of the Legends of the Ehine. 


SONGS WITHOUT SENSE 


FOR THE PARLOR AND PIANO 

I. THE PERSONIFIED SENTIMENTAL 

Affection’s charm no longer gilds 
The idol of the shrine ; 

But cold Oblivion seeks to fill 
Regret’ s ambrosial wine. 

Though Eriendship’s offering buried lies 
’Neath cold Aversion’s snow, 

Regard and Faith will ever bloom 
Perpetually below. 

I see thee whirl in marble halls, 

In Pleasure’s giddy train ; 

Remorse is never on that brow, 

Nor Sorrow’s mark of pain. 

Deceit has marked thee for her own \ 
Inconstancy the same ; 

And Ruin wildly sheds its gleam 
Athwart thy path of shame. 


II. THE HOMELY PATHETIC 

The dews are heavy on my brow ; 

My breath conies hard and low ; 
Yet, mother dear, grant one request, 
Before your boy must go. 

Oh ! lift me ere my spirit sinks, 

And ere my senses fail, 


SONGS WITHOUT SENSE 


297 


Place me once more, 0 mother dear, 
Astride the old fence-rail. 

The old fence-rail, the old fence-rail ! 
How oft these youthful legs, 

With Alice’ and Ben Bolt’s, were hung 
Across those wooden pegs ! 

’T was there the nauseating smoke 
Of my first pipe arose : 

0 mother dear, these agonies 
Are far less keen than those. 

1 know where lies the hazel dell, 
Where simple Nellie sleeps ; 

I know the cot of Nettie Moore, 

And where the willow weeps. 

I know the brook side and the mill, 

But all their pathos fails 

Beside the days when once I sat 
Astride the old fence-rails. 


III. SWISS AIR 

I ’m a gay tra, la, la, 

With nfy fal, lal, la, la, 

And my bright — 

And my light — 

Tra, la, le. [Repeat.] 

Then laugh, ha, ha, ha, 

And ring, ting, ling, ling, 

And sing fal, la, la, 

La, la, le. 


[Repeat.] 


VI. LITTLE POSTEEITY 


MASTER JOHNNY’S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR 

It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa 
and mamma moved in 

Next door, just as skating was over, and marbles about to 
begin ; 

For the fence in our hack yard was broken, and I saw, as I 
peeped through the slat, 

There were “ Johnny-jump-ups ” all around her, and I 
knew it was spring just by that. 

I never knew whether she saw me, for she didn’t say 
nothing to me, 

But 11 Ma ! here ’s a slat in the fence broke, and the boy 
that is next door can see.” 

But the next day I climbed on our wood-shed, as you know 
Mamma says I ’ve a right, 

And she calls out, “ Well, peekin’ is manners ! ” and I 
answered her, “ Sass is perlite ! ” 

But I was n’t a bit mad, no, Papa, and to prove it, the very 
next day, 

When she ran past our fence in the morning I happened to 
get in her way, — 

For you know I am “ chunked ” and clumsy, as she says 
are all boys of my size, — 

And she nearly upset me, she did, Pa, and laughed till tears 
came in her eyes. 


MASTER JOHNNY’S NEXT-DOOR NEIGHBOR 299 


And then we were friends from that moment, for I knew 
that she told Kitty Sage, — 

And she was n’t a girl that would flatter — “ that she 
thought I was tall for my age.” 

And I gave her four apples that evening, and took her to 
ride on my sled, 

And — “ What am I telling you this for ? ” Why, Papa, 
my neighbor is dead ! 

You don’t hear one half I am saying, — I really do think 
it ’s too had ! 

Why, you might have seen crape on her door-knob, and no- 
ticed to-day I ’ve been sad. 

And they ’ve got her a coflin of rosewood, and they say they 
have dressed her in white, 

And I ’ve never once looked through the fence, Pa, since 
she died — at eleven last night. 

And Ma says it ’s decent and proper, as I was her neighbor 
and friend, 

That I should go there to the funeral, and she thinks that 
you ought to attend ; 

But I am so clumsy and aAvkward, I know I shall he in the 
way, 

And suppose they should speak to me, Papa, I would n’t 
know just what to say. 

So I think I will get up quite early, — I know I sleep late, 
but I know 

I ’ll he sure to wake up if our Bridget pulls the string that 
I ’ll tie to my toe ; 

And I ’ll crawl through the fence, and I ’ll gather the 
“ Johnny -jump-ups ” as they grew 

Bound her feet the first day that I saw her, and, Papa, I ’ll 
give them to you. 


300 LITTLE POSTERITY 

For yon ’re a big man, and, you know, Pa, can come and go 
just where you choose, 

And you ’ll take the flowers in to her, and surely they ’ll 
never refuse ; 

But, Papa, don’t say they ’re from Johnny ; they won’t un- 
derstand, don’t you see ? 

But just lay them down on her bosom, and, Papa, she ’ll 
know they ’re from Me. 


MISS EDITH’S MODEST KEQUEST 


My Papa knows you, and he says you ’re a man who makes 
reading for books ; 

But I never read nothing you wrote, nor did Papa, — I know 
by his looks. 

So I guess you ’re like me when I talk, and I talk, and I 
talk all the day, 

And they only say, “ Do stop that child ! ” or, “ Nurse, 
take Miss Edith away.” 

But Papa said if I was good I could ask you — alone by 
myself — 

If you would n’t write me a book like that little one up on 
the shelf. 

I don’t mean the pictures, of course, for to make them 
you ’ve got to be smart *, 

But the reading that runs all around them, you know, — just 
the easiest part. 

You need n’t mind what it ’s about, for no one will see it 
but me, 

And Jane, — that’s my nurse, — and John, — he’s the 
coachman, — just, only us three. 

You ’re to write of a bad little girl, that was wicked and 
bold and all that ; 

And then you ’re to write, if you please, something good — 
very good — of a cat ! 

This cat, she was virtuous and meek, and kind to her 
parents, and mild, 

And careful and neat in her ways, though her mistress was 
such a bad child ; 


302 LITTLE POSTERITY 

And hours she would sit and would gaze when her mistress 
— that ’s me — was so bad, 

And blink, just as if she would say, “ Oh, Edith! you 
make my heart sad .’ 7 

And yet, you would scarcely believe it, that beautiful, 
angelic cat 

Was blamed by the servants for stealing whatever, they 
said, she ’d get at. 

And when John drank my milk, — don’t you tell me! I 
know just the way it was done, — 

They said ’t was the cat, — and she sitting and washing her 
face in the sun ! 

And then there was Dick, my canary. When I left its 
cage open one day, 

They all made believe that she ate it, though I know that 
the bird flew away. 

And why ? J ust because she was playing with a feather 
she found on the floor. 

As if cats could n’t play with a feather without people 
thinking ’t was more ! 

Why, once we were romping together, when I knocked 
down a vase from the shelf, 

That cat was as grieved and distressed as if she had done it 
herself ; 

And she walked away sadly and hid herself, and never 
came out until tea, — 

So they say, for they sent me to bed, and she never came 
even to me. 

No matter whatever happened, it was laid at the door of 
that cat. 

Why, once when I tore my apron, — she was wrapped in it> 
and I called “ Rat ! ” — 


MISS EDITHS MODEST REQUEST 303 

Why, they blamed that on her. I shall never — no, not to 
my dying day — 

Forget the pained look that she gave me when they slapped 
me and took me away. 

Of course, you know just what comes next, when a child is 
as lovely as that : 

She wasted quite slowly away ; it was goodness was killing 
that cat. 

I know it was nothing she ate, for her taste was exceedingly 
nice ; 

But they said she stole Bobby’s ice cream, and caught a bad 
cold from the ice. 

And you ’ll promise to make me a book like that little one 
up on the shelf, 

And you ’ll call her “ Naomi,” because it ’s a name that she 
just gave herself ; 

For she ’d scratch at my door in the morning, and whenever 
I ’d call out, “ Who ’s there ? ” 

She would answer, “ Naomi ! Naomi ! ” like a Christian, I 
vow and declare. 

And you’ll put me and her in a book. And mind, you're 
to say I was bad ; 

And I might have been badder than that but for the 
example I had. 

And you ’ll say that she was a Maltese, and — what ’s that 
you asked ? “ Is she dead ? ” 

Why, please, sir, there ain’t any cat ! You ’re to make 
one up out of your head ! 


MISS EDITH MAKES IT PLEASANT FOR 
BROTHER JACK 


“ Crying ! ” Of course I am crying, and I guess you would 
be crying, too, 

If people were telling such stories as they tell about me, 
about you. 

Oh yes, you can laugh if you want to, and smoke as you 
did n’t care how, 

And get your brains softened like uncle’s. Dr. Jones says 
you ’re gettin’ it now. 

Why don’t you say “ Stop ! ” to Miss Ilsey ? She cries 
twice as much as I do, 

And she’s older and cries just from meanness, — for a 
ribbon or anything new. 

Ma says it’s her “ sensitive nature.” Oh my! No, I 
sha’n’t stop my talk ! 

And I don’t want no apples nor candy, and I don’t want to 
go take a walk ! 

I know why you ’re mad ! Yes, I do, now ! You think 
that Miss Ilsey likes you, 

And I’ve heard her repeatedly call you the bold-facest boy 
that she knew ; 

And she ’d u like to know where you learnt manners.” Oh 
yes ! Kick the table, — that ’s right! 

Spill the ink on my dress, and go then round telling Ma 
that I look like a fright ! 


MISS EDITH AND BROTHER JACK 305 

What stories ? Pretend yon don’t know that they ’re say- 
ing I broke off the match 

’Twixt old Money-grubber and Mary, by saying she called 
him “ Crosspatch,” 

When the only allusion I made him about sister Mary was, 
she 

Cared more for his cash than his temper, and you know, 
Jack, you said that to me. 

And it ’s true ! But it ’s me, and I ’m scolded, and Pa says 
if I keep on I might 

By and by get my name in the papers ! Who cares ? 
Why, ’t was only last night 

I was reading how Pa and the sheriff were selling some 
lots, and it ’s plain 

If it ’s awful to be in the papers, why, Papa would go and 
complain. 

You think it ain’t true about Ilsey ? Well, I guess I 
know girls, and I say 

There ’s nothing I see about Ilsey to show she likes you, 
anyway ! 

I know what it means when a girl who has called her cat 
after one boy 

Goes and changes its name to another’s. And she ’s done 
it — and I wish you joy ! 


MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND 


Oh, you ’re the girl lives on the corner ? Come in — if 
you want to — come quick ! 

There ’s no one hut me in the house, and the cook — but 
she ’s only a stick. 

Don’t try the front way, but come over the fence — through 
the window — that ’s how. 

Don’t mind the big dog — he won’t bite you — just see him 
obey me ! there, now ! 

What’s your name ? Mary Ellen ? How funny ! Mine ’s 
Edith — it ’s nicer, you see ; 

But yours does for you, for you ’re plainer, though maybe 
you ’re gooder than me ; 

For Jack says I’m sometimes a devil, but Jack, of all 
folks, need n’t talk, 

For I don’t call the seamstress an angel till Ma says the 
poor thing must “ walk.” 

Come in ! It ’s quite dark in the parlor, for sister will 
keep the blinds down, 

For you know her complexion is sallow like yours, but she 
is n’t as brown ; 

Though Jack says that isn’t the reason she likes to sit 
here with Jim Moore. 

Do you think that he meant that she kissed him ? Would 
you — if your lips was n’t sore ? 

If you like, you can try our piano. ’T ain’t ours. A man 
left it here 

To rent by the month, although Ma says he has n’t been 
paid for a year. 


MISS EDITH MAKES ANOTHER FRIEND 307 

Sister plays — oh, such fine variations ! — why, I once 
heard a gentleman say 

That she did n’t mind that for the music — in fact, it was 
just in her way ! 

Ain’t I funny ? And yet it ’s the queerest of all that, 
whatever I say, 

One half of the folks die a-laughing, and the rest, they all 
look t’other way. 

And some say, “ That child ! ” Do they ever say that to 
such people as you ? 

Though maybe you ’re naturally silly, and that makes your 
eyes so askew. 

Now stop — don’t you dare to be crying ! Just as sure as 
you live, if you do, 

I ’ll call in my big dog to bite you, and I ’ll make my Papa 
kill you, too ! 

And then where ’ll you be ? So play pretty. There ’s my 
doll, and a nice piece of cake. 

You don’t want it — you think it is poison ! Then /’ll 
eat it, dear, just for your sake ! 


WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FEOM HER 
WINDOW 


Our window ’ s not much, though it fronts on the street ; 
There ’s a fly in the pane that gets nothin’ to eat ; 

But it ’s curious how people think it ’s a treat 
For me to look out of the window ! 

Why, when company comes, and they ’re all speaking low, 
With their chairs drawn together, then some one says, 
“ Oh! 

Edith dear ! — that ’s a good child — now run, love, 
and go 

And amuse yourself there at the window ! ” 

Or Bob — that ’s my brother — comes in with his chum, 
And they whisper and chuckle, the same words will 
come. 

And it ’s “ Edith, look here ! Oh, I say ! what a rum 
Lot of things you can see from that window ! ” 

And yet, as I told you, there ’s only that fly 

Buzzing round in the pane, and a bit of blue sky, 

And the girl in the opposite window, that I 
Look at when she looks from her window. 

And yet, I ’ve been thinking I ’d so like to see 

If what goes on behind her , goes on behind me ! 

And then, goodness gracious ! what fun it would be 
For us both as we sit by our window ! 


WHAT MISS EDITH SAW FROM HER WINDOW 309 

How we ’d know when the parcels were hid in a drawer, 

Or things taken out that one never sees more ; 

What people come in and go out of the door, 

That we never see from the window ! 

And that night when the stranger came home with our Jane 
I might see what I heard then, that sounded so 
plain — 

Like when my wet fingers I rub on the pane 

(Which they won’t let me do on my window). 

And I ’d know why papa shut the door with a slam, 

And said something funny that sounded like “ jam,” 
And then u Edith — where are you ? ” I said, “ Here 
I am.” 

“ Ah, that’s right, dear, look out of the window ! ” 

They say when I ’m grown up these things will appear 
More plain than they do when I look at them here, 
But I think I see some things uncommonly clear, 

As I sit and look down from the window. 

What things ? Oh, the things that I make up, you know, 
Out of stories I ’ve read — and they all pass below. 
Ali Baba, the Forty Thieves, all in a row, 

Go by, as I look from my window. 

That ’s only at church time ; other days there ’s no crowd. 
Don’t laugh ! See that big man who looked up and 
bowed ? 

That ’s our butcher — I call him the Sultan Mahoud 
When he nods to me here at the window ! 

And that man — he ’s our neighbor — just gone for a ride 
Has three wives in the churchyard that lie side by side. 


310 


LITTLE POSTERITY 


So I call him “Bluebeard” in search of his bride, 
While I ’m Sister Anne at the window. 

And what do I call you ? Well, here ’s what I do : 

When my sister expects you, she puts me here, too ; 
But I wait till you enter, to see if it ’s you, 

And then — I just open the window ! 

“ Dear child ! ” Yes, that ’s me ! Oh, you ask what that 
for ? 

Well, Papa says you ’re “ Poverty’s self,” and what 
more, 

I open the window, when you ’re at the door, 

To see Love fly out of the window I ” 


ON THE LANDING 


(an idyl of the balusters) 

Bobby, cetat. 3£. Johnny, cetat. 4£. 

BOBBY 

Do you know why they ’ve put us in that back room, 
Up iii the attic, close against the sky, 

And made believe our nursery ’s a cloak-room ? 

Do you know why ? 

JOHNNY 

No more I don’t, nor why that Sammy’s mother, 
What Ma thinks horrid, ’cause he bunged my eye, 
Eats an ice cream, down there, like any other ! 

No more don’t I ! 

BOBBY 

Do you know why Nurse says it is n’t manners 
For you and me to ask folks twice for pie, 

And no one hits that man with two bananas ? 

Do you know why ? 

JOHNNY 

No more I don’t, nor why that girl, whose dress is 
Off of her shoulders, don’t catch cold and die, 

When you and me gets croup when we undresses ! 

No more don’t I ! 


312 


LITTLE POSTERITY 


BOBBY 

Perhaps she ain’t as good as you and I is, 

And God don’t want her up there in the sky, 

And lets her live — to come in just when pie is — 
Perhaps that ’s why ! 

JOHNNY 

Do you know why that man that ’s got a cropped head 
Rubbed it just now as if he felt a fly ? 

Could it he, Bobby, something that I dropded ? 

And is that why ? 

BOBBY 

Good boys behaves, and so they don’t get scolded, 

Nor drop hot milk on folks as they pass by. 

johnny {piously) 

Marbles would bounce on Mr. Jones’ bald head — 

But I sha’n’t try ! 

BOBBY 

Do you know why Aunt Jane is always snarling 
At you and me because we tells a lie, 

And she don’t slap that man that called her darling ? 

Do you know why ? 

^ JOHNNY 

No moreH don’t, nor why that man with Mamma 
Just kissed her hand. 


BOBBY 

She hurt it — and that ’s why : 
He made it well, the very way that Mamma 
Does do to I. 


ON THE LANDING 


313 


JOHNNY 

I feel so sleepy. ... Was that Papa kissed us ? 

What made him sigh, and look up to the sky ? 

BOBBY 

We were n’t downstairs, and he and God had missed us, 

And that was why ! 


































































































NOTES 


Page 106. The Lost Galleon. As the custom on which the central 
incident of this legend is based may not be familiar to all readers, I will 
repeat here that it is the habit of navigators to drop a day from their cal- 
endar in crossing westerly the 180th degree of longitude of Greenwich, 
adding a day in coming east ; and that the idea of the lost galleon had 
an origin as prosaic as the log of the first China Mail Steamer from San 
Francisco. The explanation of the custom and its astronomical relations 
belongs rather to the usual text-books than to poetical narration. If any 
reader thinks I have overdrawn the credulous superstitions of the ancient 
navigators, I refer him to the veracious statements of Maldonado, De 
Fonte, the later vo} r ages of La Perouse and Anson, and the charts of 1040. 
In the charts of that day Spanish navigators reckoned longitude E. 3G0 
degrees from the meridian of the Isle of Ferro. For the sake of perspicuity 
before a modern audience, the more recent meridian of Madrid was substi- 
tuted. The custom of dropping a day at some arbitrary point in crossing 
the Pacific westerly, I need not say, remains unaffected by any change of 
meridian. I know not if any galleon was ever really missing. For two 
hundred and fifty years an annual trip was made between Acapulco and 
Manila. It may be some satisfaction to the more severely practical of my 
readers to know that, according to the best statistics of insurance, the loss 
during that period would be exactly three vessels and six hundredths of a 
vessel, which would certainly justify me in this summary disposition of 
one. 

Page 268. The Pliocene Skull. This extraordinary fossil is in the pos- 
session of Prof. Josiah D. Whitney, of the State Geological Survey of 
California. The poem was based on the following paragraph from the 
daily press of 1866 : “ A human skull has been found in California, in the 
pliocene formation. This skull is the remnant not only of the earliest 
pioneer of this State, but the oldest known human being. . . . The skull 
was found in a shaft 150 feet deep, two miles from Angels in Calaveras 
County, by a miner named James Watson, who gave it to Mr. Scribner, a 
merchant, who gave it to Dr. Jones, who sent it to the State Geological 
Survey. . . . The published volume of the State Survey of the Geology 
of California states that man existed here contemporaneously with the 
mastodon, but this fossil proves that he was here before the mastodon was 
known to exist.” 



INDEX OF FIEST LINES 

PAGE 

Above the bones 225 

Above the pines the moon was slowly drifting 209 

Act first, scene first. A study. Of a kind 49 

Affection’s charm no longer gilds 296 

An empty bench, a sky of grayest etching 261 

And you are the poet, and so you want 36 

As I stand by the cross on the lone mountain’s crest 243 

As you look from the plaza at Leon west 83 

Beautiful ! Sir, you may say so. Thar is n’t her match in the county. 115 

Beetling walls with ivy grown 294 

Beg your pardon, old fellow ! I think 211 

Behind the footlights hangs the rusty baize 267 

Being asked by an intimate party 160 

Bells of the Past, whose long-forgotten music 74 

Blown out of the prairie in twilight and dew 206 

Brief words, when actions wait, are well 244 

Brown foundling of the Western wood 238 

Bunny, lying in the grass 7 

By scattered rocks and turbid waters shifting 202 

Came the relief. “What, sentry, ho ! ” 13 

Captain of the Western wood 205 

Certain facts which serve to explain 219 

Cicely says you ’re a poet ; maybe, — I ain’t much on rhyme 124 

Coward, — of heroic size 204 

“Crying ! ” of course I am crying, and I guess you would be crying 

too 304 

Dear Dolly ! who does not recall 246 

Did n’t know Flynn 122 

Do I sleep ? do I dream ? 165 

Do you know why they ’ve put us in that back room 311 

Don’t mind me, I beg you, old fellow, — I ’ll do very well here alone 248 

Down the picket-guarded lane 5 

Dow’s Flat. That ’s its name 118 

Drunk and senseless in his place 90 

Good ! — said the Padre, — believe me still 93 


318 INDEX OF FIRST LINES 

Halt 1 Here we are. Now wheel your mare a trifle 188 

Hark ! I hear the tramp of thousands 10 

“ Have a care ! ” the bailiffs cried 45 

Have you heard the story that gossips tell 1 

He wore, I think, a chasuble, the day when first we met 288 

Here ’s the spot. Look around you. Above on the height 31 

Here ’s yer to} 7 balloons ! All sizes !. 241 

High on the Thracian hills, half hid in the billows of clover 287 

I have found out a gift for my fair 279 

I mind it was but yesterday 214 

I read last night of the grand review 17 

I reside at Table Mountain, and my name is Truthful James 132 

I speak not the English well, but Pachita 104 

“I was with Grant ” — the stranger said 27 

If Mr. Jones, L3 r curgus B 289 

I ’m a gay tra, la, la 297 

I ’m sitting alone by the fire 157 

In sixteen hundred and forty-one 106 

It is the story of Thompson — of Thompson, the hero of Angels 152 

It was Andrew Jackson Sutter, who, despising Mr. Cutter for re- 
marks he heard him utter in debate upon the floor 178 

It was noon b} r the sun ; we had finished our game 142 

It was spring the first time that I saw her, for her papa and mamma 

moved in 298 

It was the morning season of the year 98 

It was the stage-driver’s story, as he stood with his back to the 

wheelers 175 

Know I not whom thou mayst be 97 

Know me next time when you see me, won’t you, old smarty ? 172 

Last night, above the whistling wind 21 

Lo ! where the castle of bold Pfeiffer throws 286 

Look how the upland plunges into cover 149 

Looking seaward, o’er the sand-hills stands the fortress, old and 

quaint 76 

Maud Muller all that summer day 276 

My Papa knows you, and he says you ’re a man who makes reading 

for books 301 

Name of my heroine, simply “ Rose ” 234 

No, I won’t — thar, now, so ! And it ain’t nothin’ — no ! 29 

No life in earth, or air, or sky 265 

Not ours, where battle smoke upcurls 12 

Now, shift the blanket pad before your saddle back you fling 257 

0 bells that rang, 0 bells that sang 264 

O joy of creation 256 


INDEX OF FIRST LINES 319 

Of all the fountains that poets sing 70 

Oh, come, my beloved ! from thy winter abode 291 

Oh, say, have you seen at the Willows so green 274 

Oh, you ’re the girl lives on the corner ? Come in — if you want to — 

come quick ! 306 

Our window’s not much, though it fronts on the street 308 

Over the chimney the night-wind sang 208 

Sauntering hither on listless wings 207 

Say there ! P’r’aps 112 

Serene, indifferent of Fate* 200 

. Shrewdly you question, Senor, and I fancy 192 

So she ’s here, your unknown Dulcinea, the lady you met on the train 253 

So you ’re back from your travels, old fellow 163 

So you ’ve kem ’yer agen 127 

‘ ‘ Something characteristic, ” eh ? 139 

Speak, O man, less recent ! Fragmentary fossil ! 268 

The dews are heavy on my brow 296 

The skies they were ashen and sober 283 

The sky is clouded, the rocks are bare .. 213 

There is peace in the swamp where the Copperhead sleeps 20 

They ran through the streets of the seaport town 195 

They say that she died of a broken heart 197 

This is that hill of awe 240 

This is the reed the dead musician dropped 16 

This is the tale that the Chronicle 67 

Two low whistles, quaint and clear 217 

Very fair and full of promise 43 

Waltz in, waltz in, ye little kids, and gather round my knee 183 

We checked our pace, the red road sharply rounding 155 

We hev tumbled ez dust 180 

We know him well : no need of praise 25 

We meet in peace, though from our native East 33 

Well, you see, the fact is, Colonel, I don’t know as I can come 23 

What I want is my husband, sir 168 

What was it filled my youthful dreams 281 

What was it the Engines said 292 

Where the short-legged Esquimaux 40 

Where the sturdy ocean breeze 270 

Which I wish to remark 129 

Which it is not my style 146 

“ Who comes ? ” The sentry’s warning cry 14 

Why, as to that, said the engineer 170 

Wondering maiden so puzzled and fair 252 

Wot ’s that you ’re readin’ ? — a novel ? A novel ! — well, darn my 

skin ! 134 


INDEX OF TITLES 


[The titles in small-capital letters are those of the principal divisions of the work ; 
those in lower-case are single poems, or the subdivisions of long poems.] 


Address (Opening of the California The- 
atre, San Francisco, January 19, 1870), 
244. 

After the Accident, 168. 

Aged Stranger, The, 27. 

Alnaschar, 241. 

Angelus, The, 74. 

Arctic Vision, An, 40. 

Artemis in Sierra, 188. 

Aspiring Miss De Laine, 219. 

At the Hacienda, 97. 

Avitor, 281. 

“ Babes in the Woods, The,*’ 139. 

Ballad of Mr. Cooke, The, 270. 

Ballad of the Emeu, The, 274. 

Battle Bunny, 7. 

Before the Curtain, 267. 

Cadet Grey, 49. 

Caldwell of Springfield, 31. 

California Madrigal, 291. 

California’s Greeting to Seward, 25. 
Chiquita, 115. 

“ Cicely,” 124. 

Concepcion de Arguello, 76. 

Copperhead, The, 20. 

Coyote, 206. 

“ Crotalus,” 265. 

Dickens in Camp, 209. 

Dolly Varden, 246. 

Don Diego of the South, 93. 

Dow’s Flat, 118. 

Fate, 213. 

For the King, 83. 

Friar Pedro’s Ride, 98. 

Further Language from Truthful James, 
105. 

Geological Madrigal, A, 279. 

Ghost that Jim saw, The, 170. 

Goddess, The, 14. 

Grandmother Tenterden, 214. 

Greyport Legend, A, 195. 

Grizzly, 204. 

Guild’s Signal, 217. 

Half an Hour before Supper, 253. 
Hawk’s Nest, The, 155. 


Her Letter, 157. 

His Answer to “ Her Letter,” 160. 

“ How are You, Sanitary ? ” 6. 

Idyl of Battle Hollow, The, 29. 

Idyl of the Road, An, 149. 

In Dialect, 112. 

In the Mission Garden, 104. 

In the Tunnel, 122. 

Jack of the Tules, 192. 

“Jim,” 112. 

John Bums of Gettysburg, 1. 

Latest Chinese Outrage, The, 142. 
Legend of Cologne, A, 225. 

Legends of the Rhine, The, 294. 

Little Posterity, 298. 

Lone Mountain, 240. 

Lost Galleon, The, 106. 

Lost Tails of Miletus, The, 287. 

Luke, 134. 

Madrono, 205. 

Master Johnny’s Next-Door Neighbor, 
298. 

Miracle of Padre Junipero, The, 67. 
Miscellaneous, 195. 

Miss Blanche says, 36. 

Miss Edith makes another Friend, 306. 
Miss Edith makes it Pleasant for Bro- 
ther Jack, 304. 

Miss Edith’s Modest Request, 301. 
Mission Bells of Monterey, The, 264. 
Moral Vindicator, A, 289. 

Mountain Heart’s-Ease, The, 202. 

Mrs. Judge Jenkins, 276. 

National, 1. 

Newport Romance, A, 197. 

North Beach, 286. 

Off Scarborough, 45. 

Old Camp-Fire, The, 257. 

Old Major Explains, The, 23. 

On a Cone of the Big Trees, 238. 

On a Pen of Thomas Starr King, 16. 

On the Landing, 311. 

Our Privilege, 12. 

Parodies, 267. 


INDEX OF TITLES 


321 


Penelope, 127. 

Plain Language from Truthful James, 
129. * 

Poem, delivered on the Fourteenth An- 
niversary of California’s Admission 
into the Union, 33. 

Question of Privilege, A, 178. 

Ramon, 90. 

Relieving Guard, 13. 

“ Return of Belisarius, The,” 163. 
Reveille, The, 10. 

Ritualist, The, 288. 

St. Thomas, 43. 

San Francisco, 200. 

Sanitary Message, A, 21. 

Second Review of the Grand Army, A, 
17. 

“ Seventy-nine,” 172. 

Society upon the Stanislaus, The, 132. 
Songs without Sense, 296. 

Spanish Idyls and Legends, 67. 


Spelling Bee at Angels, The, 183. 

Stage Driver’s Story, The, 175. 
Station-Master of Lone Prairie, The, 261. 

Tale of a Pony, The, 234. 

Telemachus versus Mentor, 248. 
Thompson of Angels, 152. 
Thought-Reader of Angels, The, 180. 

To a Sea-Bird, 207. 

To the Pliocene Skull, 268. 

Truthful James to the Editor, 146. 

“ Twenty Years,” 211. 

Two Ships, The, 243. 

What Miss Edith saw from her Window, 
308. 

What the Bullet sang, 256. 

What the Chimney sang, 208. 

What the Engines said, 292. 

What the Wolf really said to Little Red 
Riding-Hood, 252. 

Willows, The, 283. 

Wonderful Spring of San Joaquin, The 
70. 




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